


Reflection of Loss

by goldarrow



Series: Silent!Stephen [1]
Category: Primeval
Genre: M/M, Post S2, Sort of fixit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 17:01:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5833489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldarrow/pseuds/goldarrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU here in that Captain Ryan survived the Permian mission, and he and Stephen Hart were together from that time until Stephen’s death in the bunker. Set after the end of S2. Kinda-sorta fix-it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which There Are Surprises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters:
> 
> Canon: Stephen Hart (clone), Tom Ryan, Nick Cutter, Abby Maitland, Connor Temple, James Lester, Jenny Lewis.
> 
> Original: Lyle, Blade, Kermit, Finn, Ditzy, Stringer, Fiver; all of whom belong to fredbassett who has kindly lent them to me - they will be dusted off, shined up and returned in perfect condition, I promise!
> 
> Original: Dr. Marshall is mine.
> 
> Disclaimer: Primeval belongs to Impossible Pictures, not me. Unfortunately. Sigh. I mean no harm, I make no profit except satisfaction.
> 
> A/N: AU here in that Captain Ryan survived the Permian mission, and he and Stephen Hart were together from that time until Stephen’s death in the bunker. Set after the end of S2. Kinda-sorta fix-it.

The soldiers burst through the front door of the building housing Helen's lab and fanned out into a room that looked as if an entire pack of _Tyrannosaurus_ _rex_ had held a rave in it.  
  
Ryan gave a quick glance around, noting two doors leading out, both slightly ajar. Lyle and Ditzy headed for the door on the right, Kermit and Blade for the door straight across, checking behind splintered furniture and under broken boxes and flattened crates as they moved swiftly forward, while Ryan and Finn kept close general watch at the entrance.  
  
"Long corridor, rooms on the right and left, all doors closed," Lyle reported after a swift glance through his door and a just as rapid pullback.  
  
"Two branches, some doors open, some closed," Blade chimed in from his position.  
  
Ryan motioned to Lyle and Ditzy, who immediately headed through their door. He and Finn crossed the room to join Blade and Kermit. "Keep general contact. Finn, ahead with me."  
  
The four soldiers slipped quickly through the door, each one playing lookout for the next, then they separated again into teams and leapfrogged down the two corridors, making rapid checks into every room and closing the doors after them.  
  
Each space they inspected was barer than the last. Maybe this place didn't belong to Helen Cutter, after all? Maybe she had been investigating it, too? What had they seen on the video, anyway? Helen Cutter outside the building, nothing more. And the woman seemed to relish playing mind games with them.  
  
xXx  
  
_Three hours ago:_  
  
Stringer and his team had popped through for a quick recce when the anomaly in the New Forest first opened late in their shift, and had returned to report an almost empty landscape, with only one large building a couple of klicks east of their entry point. It was plain, shoebox-shaped, single storey; looked like concrete, but it was pretty bloody big.  
  
Fiver had taken high-res video of both the area and the building, lingering on any objects of possible interest, before the exploratory team had returned through the shimmering splinters.  
  
They hadn't been able to pin down the exact era the anomaly led to, other than that it was close to their own, in geological terms. The grass and trees looked just like the ones outside the ARC, but that didn't mean a whole lot; grass and trees had looked pretty much the same for millennia, and would probably look pretty much the same for millennia more. There were no animals in view to help pinpoint the exact time frame. Oxygen levels were normal.  
  
Stringer said, “Lucky us, the bugger opened off the main roads; wouldn’t have wanted to have to close down the A31,” as he handed the camera to Connor, who plugged it into his laptop and downloaded the video. Cutter, Stringer, Abby, and Ryan crowded close to watch.

 _  
"Oi, no breathing down the backs of necks, please," Abby ordered as Stringer pushed in right behind her.  
  
"Sorry, ma'am," Stringer whispered, moving even closer, breath ghosting over her nape. Abby shivered and elbowed him in the gut; he grunted, grinned and eased back.  
  
Off Cutter's indulgent look, Connor grimaced and punched PLAY. They watched the tape all the way through, each person checking for items of interest to their own specialisms: Cutter, Abby and Connor for fauna and major flora, Connor also for any tech on or around the building, and Ryan and Stringer for anything that might be considered 'weaponisable-ready'.  
  
Cutter shook his head and shared a glance with Abby, who simply looked disappointed. Connor shrugged. "Sorry, Professor. I saw nothing."  
  
Ryan stared across the room for a moment, re-running the video across his mind's eye before asking for a slow-mo replay of the frames showing the front of the building. Something there hadn't looked right. . . A shadow in the wrong place for the sun's angle. . . Perhaps not just a shadow?  
  
"What did you see?" Cutter asked, peering closer at the screen.  
  
"I'm not sure," Ryan replied. "But I thought, just maybe - there! Right there!"  
  
Connor already had his finger on PAUSE, and he punched it as fast as he could. They all strained their eyes, Cutter almost growling as no one could make out enough detail.  
  
Connor slapped his forehead. "Duh! Hang on." He grabbed the mouse, played with the zoom control, and the building rushed closer so fast that those nearest to the screen jerked back a little. Stringer had to twitch quickly to the side in order to avoid getting smacked on the chin by the back of Abby's head.  
  
The entire display blurred as Connor clicked a few more times, and then the picture cleared and sharpened into a tight close-up.  
  
"Bugger." Cutter's one word was enough to sum up the entire group's feelings. Framed on the screen was Helen Cutter, standing in front of the shadowed wide-open door of the building, staring at the group clustered beside the anomaly with a look of mingled apprehension and anger on her face.  
  
Connor started the video again, still in slow motion, and the team watched as Helen dropped into a crouch before hurtling through the door and slamming it behind her.  
  
"We go through again," Cutter ordered. "Now."  
  
"She'll be gone," Abby countered. "She knows we were there and that we'll be back. What are you hoping to find?"  
  
"Whatever has her scared and cross because we've seen her," Cutter said. "Helen doesn't show fear, __ever_ _."_  
  
Connor ran the video back and froze on the picture of Helen Cutter staring toward the camera.  
  
"Something there is important," Cutter continued. "If we move quickly, hopefully she won't have had time to clear out everything. It's a big building."  
  
Everyone looked at Ryan, who simply raised his eyebrows and turned to his right.  
  
Everyone followed his gaze to see James Lester standing there with his arms crossed and a disgusted look on his face. "Not Helen bloody Cutter. Again." He might as well have been contemplating a plateful of mouldy bread topped with week-old egg salad set in front of him for lunch, as he stared at the picture frozen on the screen.  
  
Cutter glared and opened his mouth. The words he was about to release on Lester probably would have blistered the man like an overloaded tanning bed, but he didn't get the chance to discharge them.  
  
Lester sighed with perfect timing. "Oh, very well. I suppose I won't ever hear the last of it if I don't allow you to go Helen-hunting. However, I must insist that Captain Ryan's team go first and clear the building before anyone else passes through that door. We don't want a repeat of the bunker, do we?"  
  
Cutter scowled at the reminder, but nodded. They all gathered their gear and headed out.  
  
xXx  
  
Present:  
  
Ryan and Finn were most of the way down their corridor, still having found nothing that might be of interest to any being more technologically advanced than a woodlouse, when Ryan's headset crackled and Blade's voice sounded in his ear.  
  
"Boss, we need you now. Ditzy, get over here, too. ASAP, both of you."  
  
Ryan and Finn traded surprised glances, about-faced and headed back down the hallway at a run with weapons ready, keeping a wary eye out for any nasty surprises. What the fuck would have put that tiniest of tremors into Blade's voice? Nothing, but nothing, ever shook up Blade. The man could keep going with a grin on his face when everyone around him was shitting their pants.  
  
They turned the corner and saw Kermit three quarters of the way down the corridor, head swivelling like an owl on amphetamines as he divided his attention between watching Ryan and Finn getting closer, and making sure nothing nasty snuck up on them from the other direction, where the corridor seemed to make a hard turn instead of dead-ending.  
  
They made it to the door he was guarding in seconds, but Kermit held his hand out to stop them before they could barrel through it. Ryan slammed the brakes on and Finn almost piled into the back of him.  
  
"Wait, Boss," Kermit warned. "You'd better take this slow."  
  
Ryan started to push past him, and Kermit stuck his toes in, hard. "No." He held Ryan back. "Listen, for god’s sake."  
  
"What the fuck, Kermit? What's happened to Blade?" Ryan was almost growling. Normally Kermit would never show defiance like this. "Let. Me. Go."  
  
"Okay, Boss. But you'd better brace yourself, then." Accepting the direct order, Kermit stepped away from the door to allow Ryan past, but shook his head and held Finn back when the other soldier tried to join Ryan.  
  
Ryan stared at him for a moment before stepping through the door, weapon up. Then he came closer to dropping that weapon than he ever had in his entire career, his mind seizing up as it made a frantic attempt to process the sight in front of him.

 

 

 

 


	2. In Which the Lost is Found

The room Ryan entered contained more intact items than any of the other rooms they’d seen thus far: a table with two chairs in the centre of the room and a cabinet close to the corner against the far wall. But the furniture wasn’t what had Ryan trying to remember how to even bloody well breathe.  
  
Blade squatted in front of the cabinet, leaning a shoulder on the metal with his hands relaxed in front of him, doing his best to seem non-threatening whilst still remaining ready to react to even the slightest hint of danger.

And curled up, squeezing as much of himself as he could into the space between the side edge of the cabinet and the wall, was the nude form of Stephen Hart. He was obviously awake and aware, since he was panting and trembling slightly, but his face was turned away, his eyes were screwed shut so tightly that they must be aching, and his arms were crossed over his torso as if that was all that was holding him in one piece.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Ryan breathed, staring back and forth between Hart and Blade.  
  
The soldier gave a tiny grin. “Yeah, that’s pretty much what I said.” Blade eased back a little, and Hart flinched and ducked, raising his hand with one palm out as if to ward off a possible strike. “It’s okay,” Blade said softly, the sound a calming rumble. “It’s okay. We’re not going to hurt you.”  
  
Ryan had heard the same tone in Abby’s voice a few times when she spoke to an animal she was trying to reassure. It seemed to be working here, too, as Hart slowly lowered his arm again.  
  
Ryan stood there, stunned and staring. Fuck, this wasn’t possible. No way could this be happening. Hart had been dead for over two fucking months. And in those two months Ryan had had plenty of time to curse both fate and the MoD for sending him overseas at just the wrong moment in his and Hart’s quietly burgeoning relationship, on a ‘classified, no contact allowed’ mission that had lasted for six sodding weeks.  
  
Six weeks in which the shit had finally hit the fan and splattered all of them after Helen’s revelation four months before, of her affair with Stephen Hart all those years ago.

Six weeks in which Nick Cutter had quietly melted down in his rocky relationship with the tracker, and the rest of the team had finally turned their backs, choosing leader over adulterer.

Six weeks in which bloody Helen Cutter had once more got her hooks into Stephen, who, without Ryan there, had no one left to turn to when his personal self-esteem demons had raised their ugly heads again.

And then the final hours, in which the man Ryan had quietly fallen in love with had decided that when handed the ghastly choice between: _a_ ) suicide by dinosaur and _b_ ) letting some very nasty beasties loose on Nick Cutter and subsequently the world, that option _a_ ) would be the one chosen, without hesitation and with no obvious regret.  
Ryan had returned to England to find his lover had been dead for a week.  
  
And to add the decayed cherry to the top of that shit sundae, he’d managed to miss Stephen’s funeral by a day. Openly mourning him was problematic, too; Stephen hadn’t quite been secure enough about the stability of their relationship to allow others a look-in, wasn't able to handle even the possibility of the guys taking the piss about it, so no one knew. No one. And now. . .  
  
Ryan closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them wide again, wondering if he’d still be seeing the same thing.

Blade glanced back and grinned a little crookedly; he’d done that, too, when he’d first caught sight of the man desperately trying to squash his over 6-foot frame into that tight space. His gaze moved past Ryan as they heard the scrape of boots in the corridor.

Lyle shoved past the gaping Kermit and sidestepped the statue of Ryan that was apparently occupying the place of their boss. “Christ, the lab down that end is huge - and bloody awful. The woman’s been playing silly - _bugger_!” His sentence stopped almost with a squawk as he caught sight of the man curled in the corner.  
  
Ryan didn’t take his eyes off Hart. “Report.” The addendum ‘Please, god, give me something else to concentrate on before I lose it completely’ was unspoken but manifest in his tone.  
  
Lyle kept staring. “Shit. Um, clones, boss, bloody clones. Like - him? All stages, all dead. Some deformed. Place is a mess. Looks like she was trying to destroy everything but ran out of time. We found a bomb -”  
  
He suddenly had Ryan's complete and undivided attention.  
  
“It’s okay.” He grinned. “It was a dud. Whoever set it fucked up the arming.” His grin widened. “Sodding good thing, too. The timer was set to go off three minutes ago.”  
  
Ryan rolled his eyes. “Jesus. How big?”  
  
“Big enough to scatter this building in little tiny bits over a considerable portion of the local landscape.” Lyle sobered. “And us, too.”  
  
“Okay.” Ryan took a deep breath. “Lyle, take Finn; Blade, Kermit, you four finish the sweep, make it fast. We need to know if she left anything else; setting a bomb means she definitely didn’t have time to clear up completely. If you stumble on any computer equipment or files, you know the drill.”  
  
“On it.” Blade stood slowly, moving back a step for each foot he unfolded vertically, making sure he kept his hands where they could be seen.  
  
\--

“Is anyone going to let me through?” Ditzy finally complained from the corridor. “Jesus, you call me here on an emergency, then stand there in the way like sodding statues - oh. Fuck.”

Lyle had moved out of the way, and Blade was far enough across the room again so that the medic could finally see what was going on. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Hart, gathering as much visual information as he could from where he stood. Was it a clone? It had to be a clone; he’d seen what was left of Hart the day he’d died, and he’d just seen Helen’s little clone factory. Unless, ah sod it, seeing how many aborts there were back in the other room, maybe Helen had given up playing around and had done some time-jumping. . . Christ, even the possibility of that one made his head hurt.  
  
“Okay.” He sidestepped as Blade and Lyle exited to join Kermit and Finn, splitting up into pairs and heading out to finish the sweep. His gaze returned to Ryan, who was standing, woodenly watching Hart, or whatever he - it? - was. There wasn’t going to be much help there, obviously.  
  
Ditzy sighed silently. Bugger. Looked like he might have two problems on his hands. He’d never seen anything throw the boss like this. Shit. But no time to worry about that right now. He turned back to the cabinet’s human limpet.  
  
Deciding, first, that he’d better consider it a clone, possibly dangerous possibly not, and second, that getting it out of its hidey-hole was more important than analysing Ryan’s current state of brain-fuck, he prepared a sedative syringe, stuck it in his pocket, and paced slowly across the room to confront it. Him. Ah, might as well call it a him. What the hell, might as well call him Hart; even if he was just a clone, he still looked exactly like their tracker.  
  
Hart had relaxed enough to put his hand down, but he still had his eyes squeezed shut, as if not seeing them meant they weren’t really there and couldn’t hurt him.  
  
“Hart,” Ditzy said softly. The clone flinched, pulling back even farther, if possible, into what space there was left behind him. “Stephen. It’s okay. You remember me. I’m Ditzy. I’m going to help you, okay?” If it was a clone, would it have any memories? Was he trying to interact with a blank slate? Was it worth it? Did it even understand what he was saying?  
  
The clone started hyperventilating again.  
  
“Shh. It’s okay. Slow your breathing down.” Ditzy stayed still, knowing that the clone would hear the rustle of fabric if he moved. “Just breathe in - out - in - out; that’s right,” he continued speaking as the clone’s - no, fuck it, Hart’s - breathing started to slow. Thank fuck, at least he seemed to understand English. “Stephen, I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”  
  
Hart cracked open his eyes for a second, just long enough to give a quick sideways glance at Ditzy, then squeezed them shut again.  
  
The medic smiled. Good. There had been suspicion, and fear knocking at the door of terror in that look, but there had been intelligence and maybe even recognition, too. His smile faded a little. Recognition meant that the chances this was Hart were higher. Or that Helen had actually managed to make a clone with the original man’s memories. Shit. He kept getting sidetracked by what was irrelevant right now. His headache ratcheted up a notch and he shook his head to clear out the distracting thoughts. “We need to get you out of here, okay? Can you come with us?”  
  
Hart started to pull back again, then stopped. He took a deep breath in and opened his eyes. The pupils were dilated with fear but he managed to look directly at Ditzy. The meeting of eyes didn’t last long; his gaze kept dropping, but he was obviously doing his best to keep it steady.  
  
“Good man,” Ditzy said softly. “Will you let me give you a sedative?” Hart’s eyes widened and he swallowed hard, desperation creeping back into his expression as he stared first at Ditzy and then at the stone-faced Ryan standing beside the door.  
  
“It’s okay,” Ditzy repeated. “It won’t knock you out, just help you relax a little. I promise. Will you let me do that?”  
  
Hart gulped again, then nodded, obviously reluctant but seeming to realise that he had no choice in the matter; it must have been apparent in their stances that they’d hold him down and do it anyway if he fought.  
  
He held his arm out and turned his face away. Ditzy’s reassuring half smile morphed into a truly amused grin. Everyone he’d ever seen who hated getting shots did the same thing. As if not looking at what was happening would make it somehow less nasty. Hart twitched as the needle went in, but made no other move. Ditzy pulled back to give him some space while the sedative took effect, and spoke to Ryan.  
  
“Right. Here’s what we need,” he said firmly. “First, get that expression off your face; you’re scaring the shit out of him.”  
  
Ryan immediately turned the same look on him.  
  
“Don’t bother, boss, I’ve seen it before.”  
  
Ryan scowled.  
  
“Okay, that’s better. Second, we need some clothes for him.”  
  
Ryan raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth, but Ditzy forestalled the possible complaint.  
  
“Find some. Or a blanket, or something. He can’t go bare-arsed back through the anomaly for fuck’s sake. No matter what, he deserves some dignity.”  
  
Ryan nodded, frowning in thought. “My pack has spare combat trousers. Your main med-kit has a small blanket, doesn’t it?”  
  
“Yeah. That’ll be perfect.” Ditzy hitched a hip onto the corner of the table and looked back at Hart, who had finally uncurled a little, no longer trying to squash himself into the tiny space. “Get them now, please.” For some reason, he didn’t want to tell Ryan that, based on a certain arthropleurid scar that he’d noticed wasn’t there when he gave the injection, he was now sure this was a clone.  
  
Ryan turned without another word and headed back toward the entrance. They’d left their packs outside the front door, Fiver on guard. The soldier had bitched heartily about being left out of the fun stuff, but he’d already been through the anomaly once today with Stringer’s unit, and Ryan had only let him come on the second sortie as sentry and backup.

Ditzy remained still, quietly watching the clone drowsily watching him from his corner, until Ryan returned with the trousers and blanket. The sedative had been more effective than Ditzy had anticipated, leaving the clone compliant rather than simply calm.

Between Ditzy and Ryan, they got him dressed decently; he didn’t even resist as Ditzy used a cable tie on two of the belt loops to temporarily tighten the waistband. Ryan made a slit in the centre of the blanket and dropped it over his head like a poncho. They sat him on the chair, where he blinked slowly as he watched them silently, gaze tracking dreamily back and forth between them.  
  
Eyes narrowed, Ditzy shook his brain out of neutral and started analysing again.  
  
“Something’s wrong,” he said quietly, before realising that he might have made just a bit of a faux pas as Ryan’s jaw tightened in a transparent attempt not to yell at him. “Sorry, boss,” he added with a grin he couldn’t hide. “But, in this situation, you’d expect some yelps, or whimpers, or grumbles, or at least some sort of sound from him, wouldn’t you?”  
  
Ryan shrugged. “Maybe; what’s your point?”  
  
“Not sure. Give me a minute’s grace?”  
  
“Go on.” Ryan moved back to the doorway to keep an eye out for the rest of the team’s return.

“Stephen.” Ditzy started out slowly; just a name.  
  
The clone looked at him.  
  
“Is that your name?”  
  
He nodded.  
  
“Okay.” Ditzy took a breath. “Do you know who I am?”  
  
He nodded again.  
  
“Who am I?”  
  
The clone merely looked at him.  
  
Crap. That’s what he’d been afraid of. “Can you speak?”  
  
The clone continued to stare at him, eyebrows pulled together. He seemed almost confused by the question.  
  
“Do you know what I’m asking?” Ditzy pushed a little.  
  
The clone shook his head.  
  
Definitely crap.  
  
“You can answer yes or no, though,” Ditzy said. But instead of the nod he expected, the clone raised an eyebrow. Ditzy narrowed his eyes and saw the ghost of a smile on the clone’s face.  
  
Double crap. He had a sense of humour, then; even if a slightly twisted sense of humour that only showed up under sedation. The staring contest ended when Ditzy chuckled and asked, “Can you answer yes or no?”  
  
The clone nodded.  
  
Triple crap. He didn’t have time to explore any more as the rest of the team returned with empty hands. The clone tensed, but between the sedative and the clothing, he seemed much less wary.  
  
“Looks like she’d got just about everything out; nothing left but the trashed equipment, some broken up furniture - living quarters kind of stuff - the ‘damaged goods’ and one fried computer,” Lyle reported. “We left the computer by the front door; maybe Temple can coerce it into dispensing us its little electronic secrets.”  
  
Ryan nodded. “Right, guys, let’s head home. But before we go,” he looked at Lyle. “Reset the bomb.”

 

 

 

 

 


	3. In Which the Reactions Begin

 

Lyle raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”  
  
Ryan smirked. “Yes. Just in case she comes back, I want to make sure there’s nothing left. She might have been ready to destroy the lot to stop us getting it, but any bets against the fact that she’d be happy to walk back in here if we’re gone and the place is still in one piece?”  
  
“Ah, you might have a tiny little point, there. Right. Finn, with me. Let’s go see if we can coax that little charmer into popping off again once we’re safely back home.”  
  
Ryan cocked his head to listen and braced his earpiece to better hear what Fiver was now saying over the radio. He sighed. “Make it quick, Lyle. The fucking anomaly’s starting to weaken.”  
  
“Right. Five minutes.” Lyle and Finn headed out, leaving Blade and Kermit to await orders.  
  
Ryan obliged. “Okay. Blade, Kermit, you gather our equipment and that computer, and head back through the anomaly. Take Fiver with you. Ditzy and I will take care of this one, and wait for Lyle and Finn. Have a med team standing by at the ARC.”  
  
Blade glanced at the clone and nodded. “Right, boss. See you soon.” He waved Kermit out in front and left without another look.  
  
Ryan sighed again. He felt like he was getting a little too much practice at that particular activity. Sighs were Lester's stock in trade, not his. He was more the glare type. Or even the snarl type. Not the sigh type. He sighed a third time, to Ditzy's obvious amusement. That helped. He glared at the medic, who grinned.  
  
"Let's go." Ryan bit the words out, not looking forward to the next few minutes. He knew he was going to have to help Ditzy with the clone, who was listing to starboard as he tried to stand. They grabbed him when his knees started to turn to spaghetti, and helped him forward a few steps until he got his land legs under him.  
  
Damn it, the clone had been so curled up that Ryan hadn't realised just how skinny he was until he actually held him; the poor bastard was at least a stone underweight, and since Stephen hadn't been exactly stocky to start with, that was not healthy. What the fuck had the woman been doing to him? How long had she had him? And when was the last time she'd fed him? No fucking wonder the sedative had hit him so hard. He had no meat on his bones to absorb it.  
  
By the time they arrived at the anomaly, Ryan and Ditzy were almost carrying the clone. Between the exhaustion and the sedative, he was pretty much tracking sideways on every step. Ditzy remarked sarcastically that if he'd wanted to spend his time doing half-passes, he'd have taken up dressage. Ryan simply hitched the clone's arm higher over his shoulder and stepped a little faster through the flickering light.

Ryan released the clone into Ditzy's hands without a word and marched stiffly over to the team watching the readouts, ostensibly to get a status update on the rapidly weakening anomaly in the hopes that they could verify whether the bomb went off before it finally closed.

\--  
  
Ditzy stared after Ryan for a moment, then manhandled the clone into the back of their vehicle. Hart handed him a slightly dopey smile, and seemed perfectly happy to curl up and sleep for the entire trip back to the ARC. He didn't even wake up when the med team transferred him to a gurney and trundled him off for testing.  
  
After giving the doctors a rundown on everything that had happened, including the clone's slightly over-the-top reaction to minimal sedation, Ditzy headed reluctantly up to Lester's office to report. By the time he was halfway up the ramp he could hear Cutter taking loud exception to the Special Forces' actions on the other side.

The scientist was making it very plain, with a considerable number of r’s, that he didn't appreciate not being allowed through the anomaly, and that he definitely wasn't on board with destroying the laboratory before they had a chance to see if the anomaly would open again later so they could go back and search it more thoroughly.  
  
Luckily, the argument - could something be called an argument if only one person was yelling? - came to an abrupt finish with one quiet sentence from Lester before Ditzy actually had to interrupt them. Cutter stomped out, handed Ditzy the arse end of the glare he'd been attempting to combust Lester with, and muttered his way down the ramp and over to the ADD, where Connor started pulling up readings for him. Ditzy watched until Cutter was well involved with the new input, shared an eye-roll with Lorraine, and was waved through to Lester's office by the civil servant’s long-suffering assistant.  
  
Cutter must not have heard about Hart yet, or he'd be the one combusting right now.  
  
xXx  
  
Two hours later, Ryan returned to report to Lester. The bomb had detonated, the anomaly had closed almost immediately after, and he had left a couple of men there to monitor for a while.  
  
Lester nodded approval, but rubbed his temples. “Very good, Captain,” he said. “However, the ‘souvenir’ you returned with is going to give the entire lot of us a very nasty headache.”  
  
“Yes, Sir.” Ryan stared blank-faced at the wall above Lester’s head.  
  
The civil servant raised an eyebrow, but didn’t pursue the subject. “Grab some coffee. Lieutenant Owen has the initial test results. We meet in the small conference room in ten minutes.”  
  
Ditzy, Hart, and Lester were already present when Ryan entered the room. Ditzy and the clone were on the far side of the table, and Lester in the chair at the right end. He glanced around, and looked a question at Lester.  
  
“No, Captain, Professor Cutter will not be present at this meeting. We need to get some answers here, and I don’t want to have to take the time to constantly haul him back to ground from whatever bough he decides to fly into at the slightest provocation. Sit down, please.”  
  
Ryan’s lip twitched, but he manfully controlled himself at the mental image called up by that statement. “Sir.” He sat at the left end of the table, on the opposite side of Ditzy from the clone.  
  
“Right.” Ditzy pulled off the first sheet of paper from the stack in front of him. “He is a perfect genetic match for Stephen Hart.”  
  
Ryan caught his breath.  
  
Ditzy’s eyebrow rose a fraction but he continued without hesitation. “He is, however, definitely a clone. Certain scars present on Stephen Hart’s skin are no longer there.” He went on, talking now to the clone who was watching him intently, obviously having completely thrown off the effects of the sedative. “His physical health is pretty good; he’s a bit weak and definitely underweight, but neither of those are life-threatening. Nourishing food and exercise, and he will bounce back without a problem. Likewise his mental abilities. He can interact with his environment, and he understands English perfectly. ”  
  
He smiled at the clone, who shyly returned the look before glancing nervously at Ryan and then turning his attention to James Lester.  
  
Lester pursed his lips and rested his chin on steepled hands. “Which all leaves us with a definite problem,” he said quietly, with none of his usual sarcasm present. He looked straight into the eyes of the clone of their tracker, and allowed a modicum of mockery to again spice his words. “Before we celebrate the miraculous return of Stephen Hart, we do need to know exactly what Helen Cutter’s purpose was in creating you.” He dropped his hands to the table and stared down at them as he continued. “I will, however, allow that you are to be referred to as Stephen Hart, since you are a genetic match, and that is the name you have been called since you were - born.”  
  
The clone - Hart - looked relieved. Ryan’s jaw tightened for a second before he deliberately relaxed it. No reason to break a tooth over a name. This might be a copy of Stephen Hart, but it wasn’t his lover. He tuned back in to the room as Ditzy started asking questions, since the medic seemed to be the most adept at framing everything they wanted to find out as a yes-or-no scenario.  
  
However, after a frustrating hour in which Lester waxed sarcastic a number of times, Ditzy looked like he was developing a migraine, and Ryan wanted to strangle Lester, shake Ditzy, and alternately hug and thump Hart, all they had managed to pin down was that Hart couldn’t speak, wouldn't attempt it, and seemed to have no ability to comprehend that speech might even be possible: his face would go blank at any hint of such a suggestion. He could read, but writing seemed to be beyond him. When Ditzy had put a pen in his hand and told him to sign his name, he simply stared at it for a moment, and set it down again without even attempting to use it. The medic handed the pen back again, and this time Hart frowned, shook his head and pushed it away, his expression clearly stating that he'd rather be petting a snake. End of subject, in no uncertain terms.

Their next discovery was that he had all of their tracker’s memories; well, every public one of them, anyway, right up to and including the cage room. They realised that last one when Ditzy asked about the final day, and Hart went completely rigid, gasped and then curled up in a shuddering ball.

Ryan had to lock every muscle in his own body to resist the temptation to slide over and console him. What must it be like to remember being torn apart? Most near-death experiences he’d heard about emphasised what a positive experience it had turned out to be. This didn’t look like it had been anywhere within half a planet of positive.  
  
Ditzy calmed Hart down, and once he was interacting with them again, the next set of questions elicited that he had been created about three weeks ago, maybe a little more, he’d never been outside the building, and he’d never seen anyone other than Helen and her Cleaner clones. She had never shown him the laboratory, he’d spent all of his short life in the corridor where they found him, and he didn’t know why Helen had created him - although Ryan had his doubts about that last response. Stephen’s only ability to lie had always been by omission, at all other times he was pathetically transparent, at least to Ryan and seemingly to Ditzy also if the glance the medic shared with Ryan was anything to go by.  
  
They kept asking about the reason for his creation, altering wording, changing perspectives, trying every possible combination of positive-negative questions, until Hart finally shoved his chair back, stood up jerkily, stalked over to the wall and smacked it in frustration before turning and sliding down to sit on the floor with his eyes closed and his head resting on his bent knees.  
  
It was at that moment that Nick Cutter slammed open the door and blasted into the room so quickly that he almost folded over the table before he could get stopped.

“Where is he?” he demanded. Catching sight of Hart on the floor, he flipped and headed around the table. “What the bloody hell have you done to him? Stephen? Oh, my dear god, Stephen?”

 


	4. In Which Ryan Talks and Remembers

  
Ryan stood quickly, ready to grab Cutter, but Lester held his hand up, signalling without words that this should be allowed to play out. The soldier accepted that it would be much more effective in the long run to allow Cutter to get it out of his system now than it would be to shove a lid on him, only to have him boil over again later.  
  
It didn’t help the situation when Hart freaked out at the sight and sound of the Scotsman heading toward him at speed. Without even coming to his feet, he scooted rapidly down the wall to the corner, folding up with a silent gasp into as tiny a ball as a man his height could form.  
  
Cutter stopped as if he’d run into a wall himself. Eyes wide, he went slowly to his knees and held out a trembling hand to touch Hart’s shoulder gently. “Stephen?”  
  
Hart twitched, but continued to play hedgehog.

At Ryan’s urging, Cutter backed away, but then turned on Lester with a snarl, every word forced past an accent thickened with fury and pain. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out about him? Did you think I didn’t deserve to know he’s back? Damn it, man, what the bloody hell _were_ you thinking?”  
  
Lester sighed, one of his best efforts to date, Ryan thought, the soldier’s mind taking refuge in trivialities as he pulled Cutter to sit in one of the conference chairs. His attention was only half on Lester’s attempts to calm Cutter down; the rest of him was concentrating on Ditzy’s attempts to bring Hart out of his curl. Neither was being spectacularly successful.  
  
Ditzy finally managed to coax Hart to unfold, but the clone refused to meet anyone’s eyes, and remained in the corner with his arms wrapped around his stomach, looking as if he were holding himself back from tears by sheer strength of will. Lester was a trifle more effective with Cutter, managing to get him to stay seated, if not exactly still, and to pay attention to what they were saying as the two of them brought him up to date.  
  
“So, Professor,” Lester spoke with finality. “That is the situation. We don’t know enough right now to take any further action. Hart will remain in the ARC until we can ascertain whether there is any danger either to or from him, and also until we find some way to resurrect his identity without too many questions being asked.”  
  
Cutter started to rise angrily again but a cocked eyebrow from Lester had him settling back down with ill grace. “Yeah, okay,” he grated out. Turning to Hart, who was still looking a bit rocky, he added, “Stephen, if there’s anything you need, you let me know.”

After a moment’s hesitation, ignoring the others in the room, Cutter walked over to crouch in front of the tracker, staying just outside their old personal-space limit. “One thing I can give you now, that I wanted to give you in the - “ He faltered for a moment, but gathered himself and continued, “- the bunker, is this: Stephen, I forgive you. I can say now that your stupid affair is truly in the past, truly behind us. And. . . And I’m sorry, too, for the way I acted. Those last few hours made me remember just how hard it used to be for anyone to ever say ‘no’ to Helen.”  
  
Hart stared at him, eyes filling. Cutter smiled shakily. “I think we both could do that, now, though, don’t you?” Hart nodded so hard he made himself giddy. Ditzy grinned at his wobbly gaze and gestured for Cutter to give Hart some space. Cutter nodded and stalked over to the door, just having to get in one parting shot, “Lester, don’t ever keep me in the dark about something like this again. Do. You. Understand?”  
  
The head of the ARC smiled crookedly, staring Cutter straight in the eye. “It did all work out for the best, didn’t it?”  
  
Cutter snorted and walked out.  
  
Ryan finally started breathing fully again. That had been fucking hard to stay out of. He’d had to call on every bit of discipline he’d ever developed to avoid tossing Cutter right back out the door when he forced his way in. He turned to Hart and Ditzy. The medic was speaking softly to the clone, and Hart nodded slowly and rose shakily to his feet.  
  
“Right,” Ditzy stated after taking a deep breath. “That was all our fun for the day, I hope.” He turned to Ryan. “We need to set Hart up in one of the rest-rooms; better there than the infirmary, I think.”  
  
Ryan agreed. “Do it. I’ll check in with you later.” Ryan nodded to Lester and left the room, heading straight out the front door to get some much needed air. There were occasions when he wished he smoked; this was one of them. It would give an excuse for practically running outside, at least. Fuck, what a mess. This wasn’t his Stephen. He kept telling himself that. Even though Cutter seemed to have accepted the substitute without a qualm, this wasn’t his Stephen.

Did the clone really have _all_ of Stephen’s memories, or did he only know what Helen could have found out from stealing reports? Were they really his memories, or were they programmed in? Did he remember _them_? Ryan leaned against the wall, turned his face to the sun and closed his eyes.  
  
xXx  
  
"Are you ready to talk about it now?"

If Ryan hadn't heard the probably intentional scrape of Ditzy's boot-sole on the concrete, he would have jumped a foot at the sudden question.   
  
"About what?" He knew he was being deliberately obtuse, but he couldn't help it. What he and Stephen had had between them was so fragile that it seemed dangerous to talk about it even now.   
  
Ditzy shook his head. "Come on, Ryan. Maybe the other guys are still out of the loop, but I've known you for years. Your reactions today made your feelings fucking obvious; to me, anyway. The only thing I haven't figured out is when it started."  
  
Ryan tightened his jaw, then sighed and let the floodgates open. There was no one close enough to hear and he was so bloody tired of holding it in. At least Ditzy would never judge.   
  
"About two weeks after that disaster of a trip to the Permian with Cutter and his bitch of a wife." He settled his gaze on the far distance; he could see Ditzy out of the corner of his eye, leaning against the building beside him. Ryan knew he was showing more emotion than he normally would, but for once he didn’t care. "I was still off duty with the bum shoulder where that fucking future thing had split it open, and Stephen was still trying to pick up the pieces of his relationship with Cutter after the bitch's bigmouth moment. I'd stopped in at my local, and Hart was there in the corner, totally pissed. I could see the barman was starting to give him the eye, so I did Hart a favour and hauled him home with me to sleep it off. I fed him in the morning and we spent the day together. And then that night." His lips tightened. "We ended up lovers. I did my best to keep him going when Cutter was treating him like something he'd scraped off the bottom of his shoe, and he kept me from taking Connor's head off whenever the lad pulled something idiotically dangerous."  
  
Ditzy chuckled. "Yeah, kid's brainier than the average supercomputer, but fuck he can't half tangle himself up."  
  
"Then I was posted on that sodding tits up of a mission. And while I was gone there was no one to thump Cutter for being such a wanker. And there was no one to have Stephen's back." He turned his head to look directly at Ditzy. "I still regret not telling you before I left."  
  
Ditzy looked just as directly back. "I would have done what I could."  
  
"Yeah," sighed Ryan. He shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. "Anyway, we were getting damn serious about each other before I left. Then I got the news when I returned. Missed the fucking debacle by a week. And missed his sodding funeral by a day."  
  
Ryan was barely holding it together by now, his words coming faster and faster. "I went to the cemetery. I saw that grave marker. Useless fucking thing. Nothing but name, age, and 'Rest in Peace'? What the fuck? I bloody nearly kicked it over."   
  
Ditzy winced. "Yeah. There was a bit of a barney over that. No one could figure out what to say that wouldn't contravene the Official Secrets Act. "  
  
"Bullshit. Not even 'He'll be Missed'?" Ryan shook his head, and then pushed himself tiredly away from the wall. "But maybe by that time he wouldn't have been. At least not by the people who should have been closest to him."  
  
Ditzy reached out. "Maybe. But maybe now you have a second chance."  
  
Ryan's voice sounded dead, even to him. "No. My lover is gone. That - man - in there might be _a_ Stephen, but he's not _my_ Stephen. Now, it's been a long day. I'll see you tomorrow."  
  
Shoulders slumped, Ryan turned and headed back inside to check out and head home. He didn’t think he was going to sleep very well tonight. He was right.  
  
xXx  
  
_Stephen looked up from his coffee as Ryan stomped through the door after his morning run, horrendously grimy and muttering curses under his breath. One of Stephen’s rare, totally open smiles graced his lips, lighting up his entire face._  
  
Ryan's day immediately improved. He chuckled ruefully. "Sodding kid on a sodding bike chasing a sodding dog. Dog tripped over me, bike piled into both of us, and we all ended up in the ditch."   
  
Stephen lost his battle to keep his laughter contained. "My god. That's brilliant. How's the dog?"  
  
"Only you would come up with that question." Ryan sighed, folding his arms around his blue-eyed lover.   
  
Stephen squirmed. "Gerroff! You're filthy." He sniffed. "What kind of ditch was it anyway? Christ, what a stench. Go and shower!"  
  
Ryan gave his best puppy-dog eyes. "Wash my back?"  
  
Stephen retaliated with a BAFTA-worthy impression of a put-upon sigh. "Okay. I suppose I can manage that. But it'll be hard."  
  
Ryan grinned. "It'll be hard, alright." He wiggled his eyebrows and disappeared before Stephen could retaliate.   
  
Ryan dropped his clothes on the bathroom floor, figuring that was the safest place for them. He didn't want them anywhere near any carpeting stinking that much. Sighing as he caught sight of all the new bruises just commencing their soon-to-be Technicolor lives, he stepped under the hot water to let it sluice him down.   
  
A cool draft heralded the entry of his lover into the warm cubicle. Stephen took the bottle of shower gel out of Ryan's hand, poured one dollop over the back of his shoulders and another onto a flannel, and started scrubbing.   
  
"Definitely a stench," he chortled, the flannel moving quickly over the vaguely greyish and slightly greasy coating, rubbing hard and leaving nothing but healthy skin behind.   
  
"You're not going to let this go, are you?" Ryan sighed as Stephen quickly and efficiently dealt with the rest of the gunge.   
  
"Nope. Or don't you remember just how many people found out about my little 'accident' in the cow field last month?"  
  
"Would it help if I apologise for that right now?"  
  
Stephen cocked his head as he thought it over. "A little. Maybe. But I have an idea for something that will completely make it up to me." He turned Ryan around and backed him into the corner of the shower stall.   
  
When Stephen dropped to his knees in front of Ryan, the soldier's eyes widened as his blood made a rapid trip south and his cock rose, rock hard in the space of three hammering heartbeats. "Must say that wasn't what I expected," he said dizzily. "And this is me making it up to you how?"  
  
Stephen took the thick cock into his hand with a grin. "This is just Stage 1." He licked a swathe up the entire length and curled his tongue around the head. Ryan gasped. "In Stage 2. . ." He pressed the tip of his tongue hard on the underside where the head and shaft joined and wriggled it. Ryan bit back a groan. "I shag your brains out. . ." He raked the tightened tip of his tongue across the slit, tasting the pre-come that was starting to stream out. ". . .against the wall." He finally engulfed the entire length, swallowing hard as it filled his mouth and throat, repeating the action over and over until the soldier’s eyes rolled back in his head.   
  
"Christ," Ryan moaned. Stephen pulled back with a steady sucking and raised the ante by gently grasping, tugging and then rolling Ryan's balls in his free hand.   
  
One quick rasp of teeth along the underside of Ryan's cock head and the soldier emptied into his mouth with a strangled curse.  
  
”That was quick.” Stephen rose gracefully to his feet and kissed Ryan hard, sharing his own flavour with him. Ryan hummed into his mouth, chasing the taste across lips, teeth and gums until all that was left was pure Stephen, and grinned when they finally parted.  
  
"Your turn," Ryan whispered, turning to brace his forearms against the wall. The water slid in streams down his back as Stephen leaned away to grab the lube.

_Hart’s skin was warm against his back as the tracker again moved close, his mouth gliding slowly over Ryan's shoulders, softness of lips in erotic counterpoint to sharpness of teeth. One hand roamed across his chest, nails scraping over skin and hair, thumbs circling his nipples, as a single finger of the other hand penetrated him, slick with lube. Gliding slowly at first, then ramming hard onto his prostate with perfect aim. He shuddered as the shock blazed through him, his cock hardening again. “Christ.”_

_“Not even close,” Stephen replied, his voice like dark chocolate on velvet. “Do you want more? Or should I keep teasing you? Like this?” The finger withdrew, slipping slowly out, twisting in little circles as it passed through the twitching muscle, adding lube, then sliding just as slowly back in, only to slam into his prostate again. And again. Each time a slow, teasing entry, perfect hit on the target, then a soothing, twining withdrawal._

_“Oh, fuck. Damn it. Please!” By the fourth time, Ryan was going out of his mind. He didn’t think he’d be able to wait any longer; if Stephen didn’t get inside him NOW, he was going to come all over the wall without any help at all, and he let his lover know that, vociferously._

_Stephen whispered a chuckle into his ear. “As you wish.”_

_Ryan felt him pull away, leaving a slight coolness across his back, and then the slick, thick head start to penetrate. The lubed finger hadn’t loosened him much, and the stretching and burning drew a groan from him. Stephen chuckled again, pulled back a fraction for just a second, then slammed in with all his strength._

_“Fucking hell,” Ryan whispered as Stephen set up a hard rhythm, each thrust pushing him forward, catching his cock between his body and the shower wall, rubbing, squeezing. He braced himself as well as he could, reaching for Stephen's cadence, finding it, pushing back onto Stephen’s cock every time they came together, until Stephen was gasping and his tempo started to break up and he shoved in hard one last time, pulsing warmth into Ryan’s body and setting off his own explosion._

_Ryan gulped a few deep breaths, coming down from his second climax as Stephen’s weight slowly lightened and his lover pulled out of him._

_Stephen pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, and whispered in his ear. “Apology accepted,” before pulling down the shower head and giving them both a quick rinse._  
  
Ryan woke up with a start, a sticky belly and a severe case of self-disgust.

 

 


	5. In Which Cracks Form

The next days were the most surreal that Ryan had ever lived through. Everywhere he went, it seemed the clone - damn it, he supposed he’d have to start calling it - him – Stephen, sometime - Stephen would show up. He never made any move toward Ryan, he never even looked at the soldier except perhaps a quick glance and a quickly quashed smile, he was just there.

After a while, though, Ryan realised he was being paranoid. Stephen wasn’t really stalking him, in fact the tracker wasn’t around even as much as any of the other team members; they all ran into each other at various times of the day, heading to and from laboratories and offices, and back and forth to the kitchen for the ubiquitous cups of coffee and/or tea. Ryan just seemed to be more tuned in to Stephen’s presence than the presence of any of the others. And he didn’t really want to think about what that meant.

After a couple of days, he managed to pull himself together a little bit, and started analysing the ebb and flow of emotions and interactions amongst the members of the team. It was something to do to keep the wall between him and Hart.

Cutter seemed to be at a total loss. He was ecstatic that Stephen had returned, but didn’t seem to have the faintest idea how to rebuild their connection, or even if he should try, considering what had happened with their old relationship. And being Cutter, he opted for ignoring the entire situation, reverting back to interacting with Hart only for work purposes.

Abby tried to be friendly, but Hart seemed to be bothered by her interest in some fundamental way. Ryan wasn’t sure whether it was because he felt she was trying too hard, or whether he just found it difficult to respond when she’d forget to phrase things in yes-or-no format. Her guilt over turning her back on him before the incident in the bunker was an obvious _Mammuthus sungari_ in the corner of the room, colouring all of their interactions, and she was so engrossed in getting answers that she found it difficult to force her questions back to the black/white, yes/no attitude she had formerly embraced so heartily.

Connor was the closest to natural with the returned Hart; WYSIWYG might have been coined to describe the younger man. He was so obviously pleased to have the team back together that he was driving both Abby and Cutter nuts with trying to push them to play ‘happy families’ again. He kept ‘accidentally’ bringing people together and wanting them to work on their interactions. Ryan even overheard Connor telling Abby that ignoring all their problems was what got them into this situation to start with, and so they’d better all start working on the same wavelength. Ryan missed Abby’s response, but he figured it was somewhere along the lines of not rushing in where angels, etc., and Cutter’s would have been unprintable if he’d been in the room. Connor seemed unimpressed by her reaction.

The more days that passed, the less Ryan saw of Stephen. It seemed that the tracker was backing away from them all. It can’t have been easy for him, not having speech. He couldn’t start a conversation, nor even contribute to one in any more complex a way than a nod or shake of the head. Ryan even started to feel sympathy for Hart, an emotion he wasn’t sure he wanted to acknowledge. It opened too many potentially disturbing cans of worms in the soldier’s mind

\--

After a week, the medical and psychological teams metaphorically threw in the towel. Ditzy took the news to Lester that they couldn’t figure out why Helen had made Hart, and they might never do so. As far as they could determine, he wasn’t a danger to either himself or anyone else, and there was no reason to keep him sequestered any longer.

Lester took the news stoically, if a trifle sarcastically. “Jenny and Lorraine are still working on getting Stephen Hart officially resurrected, so he won’t be able to head out into the world all on his own, just yet. However, I suppose there’s no reason why he shouldn’t be allowed to go out on the next anomaly shout – always assuming the capricious orifice in question doesn’t vomit out Helen Cutter again.”

The civil servant sorted through the psych forms in his hands, noting that Hart’s reactions to being faced with creatures involved a rapid spike in pulse and blood pressure, but no actual panic. “At least he won’t freeze or run. Has he been checked out on weapons?”

“Not yet,” Ditzy replied. “We were waiting until we got final approval for him to at least attempt to lead a normal life.”

“Very well,” Lester said. “He is to accompany the team on the next operation, and do have him recertified on weaponry as soon as possible. I’d hate to have him try to save everyone again in a crisis, only to discover the hard way that he can’t sort out one end of the gun from the other.”

Ditzy grinned. “Right. I’ll let them all know.”

xXx

Ryan wasn’t sure whether to be glad or sorry that he was stuck in a meeting with Lester and one of the worst penny-pinching bureaucrats it had ever been his misfortune to be forced to deal with when the alert for the anomaly in the Forest of Dean blared early the next day. He glanced over at Lester when Lieutenant Lyle stuck his head through the door after a perfunctory knock to tell them the team on duty at the anomaly had called in that something had come through, they weren’t sure what, but it was fairly small and bloody fast. It had run right between their legs and dived into the undergrowth before they could move. They needed someone to track it down; there were nasty looking clouds moving in, and they weren’t sure how long the rain would hold off.

Lester nodded, and Ryan took a deep breath. “Jon, take the team, and add Hart for the tracking. He’s the best chance we have of finding whatever it was before it goes to ground. No weapon.”

Lyle’s eyes widened for a second, then he grinned. “Right. We’ll report as soon as we’ve tracked the sodding thing down. Sorry, Sir,” he added quickly as the bureaucrat looked as if he were gearing up to take offence. Lyle pulled back and headed out, leaving silence and a very long-suffering look on Lester's face, before it was wiped off by the next quibble by the stuffed-shirt from the Ministry, this one about Special Forces soldiers being wasted on such petty things as tracking down small animals.

Six soul-crushing hours later, Ryan was left with only sorrow that he’d missed out on the shout. He had a headache the size of the London Eye, and even having to spend the day in close proximity to Hart would have been preferable to spending it being a stoic buffer between the increasingly petty sniping by the Ministry moron and the deepening sarcasm of the head of the ARC. Whoever had decided that the Special Forces leader was the perfect person to ride shotgun on the bureaucrat was someone he’d like to meet in a dark alley for a little talk.

Tact wasn’t Ryan’s forte, and neither was babysitting. By the time he finished taking the man on a tour of all non-classified areas of the ARC, fending off his constant tries at getting into areas he wasn’t supposed to go, Ryan was wondering whether he was being punished for something. At least he wondered until he saw how frazzled Lester was looking. Anyone who didn’t know the civil servant would see nothing wrong, but to Ryan’s experienced eye the slight wrinkle in his suit and the vaguely skewed angle of the knot in his tie were screaming giveaways.

The Ministry man left, still fussing about expenses, mere moments before Lyle’s team walked back in the door. The Lieutenant sent the team on to the showers, and trudged wearily up the ramp to Lester’s office.

“We got it,” he said without preamble. He wrinkled his brow. “ _Seymouria baylorensis,_ according to Temple’s database.” He looked quite proud of himself for remembering the name. “Speedy little sod. Hart found it pretty quickly - he hasn’t lost his knack for tracking, you’ll be glad to know, boss.”

Ryan wasn’t sure whether that comment was addressed to him or Lester, but he nodded anyway. “Good.”

Lyle grinned tiredly. “The problem came about when we tried to capture it. It had long legs and a sodding hard skull. Hart was ahead with Kermit to guard him, and Kermit told me he almost lost a kneecap when the little horror decided to play chicken with them. Hart dodged quick enough, but it sideswiped our Darren and dove back into the undergrowth. We caught up with them just as it disappeared; Kermit was still hopping around hugging his knee and making the most outlandish noises. By that time it was starting to rain, so it took Hart another twenty minutes to track it to its new hiding spot. Little bugger made another dash for the horizon as soon as we got close. Took three of us landing flat on it to take it down, even though the sodding thing was less than a metre long. Anyway, we bunged it back through the anomaly, and if anything else poked its nose through later, it took one sniff of the weather and pissed off back home. Anomaly’s closed, no injuries other than bruises and Kermit’s sore knee, so all in all a success.”

Ryan nodded. “Okay, Jon. Get cleaned up, have Ditzy take a quick look at Kermit, and stand down.” He looked over at Lester, who signalled agreement. “The official report can wait until after.”

Lester sighed and stretched his neck, smiling crookedly when Ryan winced at the ensuing crackles and pops. “You’ve done all you can to assist in fending off petty bureaucratic irritations, Captain. The next step involves me indulging in a little more verbal sparring, this time with whomever sent that annoying little insect to buzz around us all day. Ask Lorraine to brew some of her special coffee for me on your way out, will you?”

The soldiers nodded and headed for the infirmary to check on Kermit.

Lyle stopped outside the infirmary, holding Ryan back for a moment.

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of Lester,” Lyle began, uncharacteristically tentative. “But, something happened out there. I don’t know what. All the way back, Kermit kept giving Hart funny looks. Seemed to be staying as far away from him as he could, too. I didn’t have time to find out what was going on, so I left it alone until we could talk back here.”

Ryan cursed. “Great. Just what we needed. Thanks, Jon. You check in with the lads, I’ll talk to Kermit.”

Lyle nodded and headed for the locker room as Ryan braced himself and opened the infirmary door.

“How’s Kermit?” Ryan leaned on the wall, watching Ditzy finish up wrapping the soldier’s slightly swollen knee.

“Nothing a few hours rest and a few anti-inflammatories won’t take care of,” the medic replied cheerfully. He patted the young man on the non-sore knee. “Now, take your tablets like a good boy, and I’ll even allow you a beer or few this evening.” His grin faded as he turned to face Ryan, and he gave a significant tilt of his head as he left.

Ryan nodded and moved across the room to front Kermit. The young soldier refused to meet his eye. “You want to tell me about it?” Ryan asked.

“Not really, boss, no,” was Kermit’s muttered reply. “But I suppose I have no choice, do I?”

“’Fraid not,” the captain said. “Whatever you say stays here, if it’s not something that affects the rest of the unit.

“Ah, shit. I don’t how it happened, boss.” Kermit played with a loose thread on the table’s sheet, talking to the back of his own hand. “It was weird. And I swear it’s never happened before. I don’t know what I was thinking. I - I don’t think I was thinking anything. I just. . .”

Wondering just what the shit happened out there, Ryan shook his shoulder consolingly. “Hang on. It’s okay. Just tell me.”

Kermit stared at him, looking like he was about to throw up. “I - I got one hell of a hard-on, boss.”

Ryan started to grin. Kermit wasn’t usually this twitchy; he’d even taken part in some of the shower-wanking contests. “It’s happened to all of us, you know that. Adrenaline from the chase; I’m not surprised you got a stiffie after having an unidentified, possibly even poisonous, animal slam into you.”

Kermit shook his head and whispered, “It wasn’t then, boss, it was before.” His face crumpled. “We were just walking through the woods, tracking it, and Hart was in front of me, and I looked at him, and it just started. I couldn’t get it turned off, no matter what I thought about. I don’t know why. It was like my dick didn’t belong to me.” He took a deep breath. “What am I going to do when I see him again?”

Ryan was floored. Kermit was straight. Totally. He’d never shown interest in any man before; and he had a wife and a baby girl, both of whom he absolutely adored with every fibre of his being.

“Don’t worry about it, Darren, and there’s no reason to tell anyone else.”

Kermit gulped and a hopeful look spread across his face.

Ryan grinned in return as he thought fast, hoping he could come up with a possibility valid enough to calm the young soldier down. “Testosterone takes a funny turn sometimes. This was the first time you’ve been sent as a single guard, right?”

Kermit nodded. “Team up, usually.”

“So, your body just went all hyper on you from the extra responsibility. Don’t worry about it.”

Kermit looked relieved. “Thanks, boss.”

“Now go home to your wife and the sprog.”

“Okay.” He shook his head as he slid to his feet. “But it was just so fucking creepy, you know?” Kermit’s words echoed in the room; it was obvious he would have taken off running if his knee had allowed it. As it was, he managed a slightly hitching but very brisk walk; he couldn’t wait to get out of the ARC.

Ryan frowned, turning the conversation over in his mind before heading toward the exit. Looking up at the last second was all that stopped him from piling into Blade, who was standing just inside the door, holding it closed.

“Problem, Blade?” Ryan asked warily. Kermit’s dilemma had been odd enough; he wasn’t sure he wanted to know why Blade had sought him out.

“Not for me,” the knife-man replied. “Lyle sent me. He just wanted to make sure Kermit talked to you.”

Ryan squinted at him. “Uh-huh. I believe you. So again I ask. . . Problem?”

Blade laughed. “Nope.” The amusement drained away like dirty dishwater. He hesitated, then spoke slowly. “I’ve seen guys get hard-ons after brawls; I’ve seen them get hard-ons after fighting or ducking the oversized nasties we go up against. I’ve never seen a straight guy get a hard-on just from looking at another guy. And Kermit’s so straight he’d make a ruler look like a corkscrew.” He looked directly into Ryan’s eyes, disquiet flickering in the green depths. “Something weird happened out there, Boss. The guys are talking about it.” A faint hint of worry leaked through. “I saw some freaked-out looks being aimed at Hart. And he caught them, too. Last I saw, he was headed for the showers. Alone, ‘cos everyone who was in there walked out as soon he went in. Just thought you should know.” Nodding once, Blade headed out, his duty done.

Ryan sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was see Stephen, now or at any time. He’d done a good job of hiding his anger with Helen’s games when they were questioning the clone, but he still had no desire at all to interact with the person wearing his lost lover’s face and form. He had a hard time not hating him, even though he knew that none of the current situation was this Stephen's fault.

He took a deep breath and headed for the showers to see if he could smooth out the problem. By the time he arrived, the rest of the team had finished cleaning up and had either gone home or over to the ready-room for some well-deserved relaxation. The group showers were empty, but Ryan could hear the water running in the far-end private cubicle. He moved silently over and watched as the clone held his head under the water and let it run through his hair, flattening the thick strands to his scalp in a way that was painfully familiar to Ryan. His eyes followed the stream as it washed down the slender back in rivulets that mapped out the clean, if slightly too meagre lines of muscle and bone. The tracker’s shoulders were slumped. He looked tired and depressed.

Christ, but Helen had made a perfect job of him. He looked exactly like Stephen; he moved with Stephen’s loose, slightly coltish grace; and after the interview, they knew he even had Stephen’s memories. But - he was just a copy. Not the real thing; never the real thing. Watching as Hart ran the flannel slowly over his chest and neck, Ryan couldn’t help wondering, though, why Helen had made him totally silent. According to the CT scans performed by the medical staff, the clone had no vocal cords; he would never be able to talk.

Then Stephen turned, his cobalt eyes widened for a moment, and he smiled tentatively at Ryan. And the soldier suddenly remembered a long ago conversation with his own Stephen, and he realised as he hardened involuntarily in his jeans exactly why Helen had re-made the man soundless. And he wanted to kill her for it. His sudden fury and revulsion must have shown in his expression, because Stephen paled and turned away, hiding his face from the soldier.

Ryan spun on his heel and marched out. He had to find Ditzy, right now. Something Stephen had told him about Helen months ago. . . Fucking hell, but he hoped he was wrong about this.


	6. In Which Tests Are Performed

Ditzy raised his head blearily as Ryan pushed into the room without knocking. The captain at least looked guilty for disturbing his well-deserved kip.

"Whuh?" As soon as his eyes managed to start tracking well enough to settle fully on Ryan and get a vague idea of how upset he was, Ditzy shook his head and his gaze sharpened. "What's up, boss?" he asked as he sat and reached for his boots, readying for action.

Ryan held up a hand. “No emergency, stay down. I just need to talk to you.”

“Ah.” Ditzy dropped the boot, stuffed some pillows against the wall behind him, and leaned back in what he hoped would be a passable imitation of nonchalance. “Lyle found you.”

“No. Blade found me. Said Lyle had sent him, but didn’t fight when I called him on it. Lyle is still AWOL. I tried to find him, but the sod’s disappeared again.”

Ditzy chuckled. “I’d really like to find his little hidey-hole, believe me I would. Must be the most secure place in the ARC.”

“Yeah. Never mind, we’ll stumble on it one day. Not really the problem right now, though. I talked to Kermit, Blade talked to me, and I saw ‘Stephen’ afterwards. We might just have one bitch of a problem on our hands, Ditz.”

The medic’s eyebrows headed for his hairline at speed. “Sit down and tell me.”

Ryan perched gingerly on the bunk across from Ditzy. After staring at his clasped hands for a few minutes as if they held the answers to life, the universe and everything, he sighed and started speaking; hesitant, patently groping for the best way to present some of the information, clearly as unhappy as a wet cat in a bathtub about what he was having to do. “When Stephen and I got together, when we first. . . shit, this is hard.”

He ran his hands through his hair, making the short strands stand completely on end, before taking a deep breath and continuing. “Stephen was the quietest lover I’ve ever had. The most he’d do is give this little moan in the back of his throat. . .”

Ryan glanced up quickly at the medic, but Ditzy simply watched him, aiming for a comfortable, even supportive presence.

“I asked him about it, oh, three or four weeks in. He turned bright red and almost bolted. I had to work hard to convince him I wasn’t taking the piss. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so fucking embarrassed about a little quirk.” Ryan relaxed against the wall as the memory clearly played out against his mind’s eye. “Took me half an hour to coax out of him that it started when he and Helen Cutter were together. Seems the woman liked her men to be very quiet in bed. No fuss, just quiet and efficient, then off somewhere else. Basically, her preference was ‘wham bam thank you ma’am’.”

Ditzy made a slightly strangled noise and Ryan chuckled wryly. “Yeah. Most unusual woman. Anyway, Hart learned very fast that any sounds of enjoyment were going to get him punished somehow. . . Oh, not that way; most of the time by shunning or sarcasm.”

“Jesus.” Ditzy felt vaguely ill. “Pretty efficient way to train someone that young. How old was he? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?”

“Twenty-two. Not too experienced and pretty damn unsure of himself.”

That sent Ditzy’s eyebrows sailing again. “With that face?”

"Yeah. That's what I thought, too. But it seems he’d always been ‘that beautiful guy’, ‘the pretty one with the eyelashes’, ‘Mr Gorgeous’. I don’t think anyone ever took the time to actually get to know him. I know that most people think that guys only ever want a quick shag then out the door -”

Ditzy snickered.

Ryan grinned and continued, “And yeah it’s true lots of the time, but if that’s all you _ever_ get, if no one ever wants to stick around for coffee, even after a second fuck, if there is one. . . He ended up with self-esteem about as low as a corgi’s rump. Made him easy pickings for Helen Cutter. Flattered she’d picked him, quick to accept it whenever she told him he was doing something wrong, even quicker to take the blame for anything ‘off’ in the relationship.”

Ditzy nodded thoughtfully, his mind starting to freewheel associations.

“When we got together, I didn’t realise I was taking on a bit of an emotional basket case.” Ryan sighed. “It was worth it, though.”

Eyes narrowed, Ditzy put his brain in gear again. “Okay, so we had the original Stephen Hart, trained to be quiet during sex. We now have the clone Stephen Hart, totally silent at all times. Give me your assessment. Because I’m not liking the thoughts in my own mind.”

Ryan leaned forward and rested his head in his hands. “Believe me, if you had the thoughts sitting in my head these last few minutes, you’d be wanting some brain bleach.” He scrubbed his face with his fingers, as if he could erase the horrific conclusions he’d come to. “I think that Helen Cutter deliberately re-created Stephen Hart to be silent. The only thing I’m not sure of is if it was some sort of twisted revenge on him, on us, or -“, he hesitated, pulled in a deep breath, and pushed the words out past a tight throat, “or if she made him as some sort of living sex toy.”

Ditzy couldn't help himself from gagging. He felt utterly nauseous now. “For herself?”

Ryan closed his eyes, unshed tears bright. “No, yes, maybe. For herself, yes, and maybe also for any one else she might want to please, or place in her debt, or even reward? Witness Kermit’s reaction to him, and I just got one hell of a hard-on when he looked at me in the showers. And to top it off, a silent whore can’t give away any of her secrets.”

“Christ, you have a nasty mind!” Ditzy jerked to his feet, moving like a marionette with its strings tangled as he headed at speed for the toilet. That was just too much for the healer in him to take.

Ditzy emptied the contents of his stomach into the bowl, then forced himself to calm down as he cleaned himself up, rinsing his mouth at the sink. When he returned to the bunk room, he was sorry to find that Ryan hadn't finished.

The captain continued inexorably, “It’s the only explanation I can think of for the silence. . . and maybe even for completely straight guys getting hard-ons around him. I just can’t figure out why it suddenly started today.”

Ditzy nodded, feeling some more blood return to his face as he wrapped his medical mantle around himself, backed away from his emotions, and started to consider. “Okay. There’s a theory that people put out pheromones, like insects do. Most of the time the idea is just used by unscrupulous snake oil salesmen to make money from the gullible, but they do seem to possibly have a slight basis in fact. According to research I’ve read, human pheromones are very weak, we’d not know we’re smelling them, but it’s a possible reason for our sometimes instant attraction to the most unsuitable partners.”

Ryan made a faintly outraged sound and Ditzy grinned. “Can you think of any reason why Finn would ever have got together with Amy-Lynn last year?”

That seemed to set the captain back on his mental heels. “Ah. Very true. A more bizarre pairing has never graced the evening of a Regimental Ball. But still,” he counted the objections off on his fingers, “Hart’s been around the medical personnel for days with no reactions; nothing happened to Blade, you or me the day we found him; and our meeting with Lester yesterday didn’t turn into an orgy.”

Ditzy pursed his lips. The question flashed through his mind as to whether even a brace of border collies would be capable of gathering his scattered thoughts together. “Right. Point taken.” He shook his head. “It still has to be pheromones. There’s no other explanation, except maybe something in the water here at the ARC. . .” he added with a slightly perverse grin.

Ryan snorted. “If that were so, the guys wouldn’t be confining their wanking to the showers and personal quarters.”

“True, O King.” Ditzy stood up, yawning and stretching. “Ah, well, no rest for the wicked. We need -“

Ryan joined him in chanting, “More tests!”

The medic sighed. “Poor bastard. And who gets to tell Lester?”

“Not me! You’re the one who can explain all that!” Ryan legged it so fast he was a black blur, leaving Ditzy chuckling ruefully as he pulled his boots back on.

xXx

Neither Lester nor Stephen gave Ditzy any trouble when he informed them that more tests were needed. Lester simply raised one eyebrow, glanced between Ryan and Stephen, who were standing as far apart as it was possible to be in his office and both looking as if they’d rather be anywhere else, and emitted an extremely put-upon sigh. “Whatever you feel you must do, make it quick. We’re running out of storage space in the roster rescheduling module.”

Stephen raised his gaze from the floor in front of his feet, a spot that seemed to hold something fascinating since he’d been examining it ceaselessly since he walked into the room, and looked at Ditzy. Ditzy nodded and they left the room together. Ryan waited, wanting to give them plenty of time to be somewhere else when he left, until Lester lost patience and decided to give him a figurative shove out the door. The civil servant cleared his throat, raised his second eyebrow to a level equal with the first, and eyed the exit significantly.

Ryan departed quickly. Ditzy and Stephen were out of sight, so he was clear to head down to the gym. He felt an extreme need to work some of his tension out in some way other than beating a large and messy hole in the nearest wall.

xXx

The next morning, Ryan entered the ARC to see Ditzy's rather weary looking back disappearing into Lester's office. He joined them in time to hear Ditzy say, "- unfortunately, yes. Double confirmation, I'm afraid. Doctor Marshall and I borrowed a sniffer from the Home Office and tested thoroughly."

Lester wore an expression that stated clearly he wasn't sure whether to be amused, annoyed or revolted. The emotions seemed to chase themselves in rings around the normally impassive face.

In a tightly controlled voice, he stated, "Right. I have a feeling this little bombshell is going to take a considerable amount of coffee to process." He reached for the intercom button. "Lorraine. Refreshments, highly caffeinated, please, in the small conference room in ten minutes. Have Cutter and Doctor Marshall meet us there." At Ryan's strangled though involuntary grunt, he sighed. "Leave Cutter out of the loop again and I have a feeling he will make a Bonfire Night fireworks display look like a sparkler. Do you want to be the one to tell him he's been shunted aside a second time?"

No, Ryan certainly didn't. But then, he didn't want to be a part of any of this. He headed down to the ready room to inform Lyle that any anomaly shouts would be up to the Lieutenant’s team, backing up Abby and Connor. He had a feeling that the meeting was going to take a while, and that it was going to take Cutter an equal amount of time afterwards to recover.

He entered the conference room ten minutes later to find Lester, Ditzy, and for a wonder, Cutter, already there. Doctor Marshall brushed by him to take the seat beside Ditzy, leaving Ryan to grab a mug of coffee and park himself between Cutter and Lester, an unenviable location to be, indeed.

\--

Ditzy glanced at Lester for permission, and after receiving the nod, gave them a quick rundown on yesterday's happenings and their suppositions, concentrating most of his attention on Cutter, the only one still totally in the dark. He had to talk fast and raise his voice a couple of times to override the Scotsman, as the more Cutter heard, the more he looked like a cross between a pot left to simmer on the stove for too long and a fish out of water. His mouth kept opening and closing, and his face got redder and redder; Ryan was sure that if he’d been backlit, it would have been possible to see steam coming out of his ears.

However, by the end of the recital Cutter had gone quite still. His breathing had even shut off, he was so obviously stunned and appalled over the revelations and Helen's possible part in creating them. Ditzy eyed him for a second, wondering whether resuscitation would be required. When it looked as if Cutter had managed to start breathing again, the medic continued. "Right. So, we ran a few tests on Hart. The results were not totally unexpected. Doctor Marshall?"

After a wary glance at Cutter, Marshall started out, gathering speed and enthusiasm with each sentence. "Human pheromones have been researched for years. In the early 1990s, scientists documented what they believe to be the human ‘vomeronasal organ’ or VNO, located near the bottom of the septal wall dividing the nose. There is some controversy as to whether the VNO, which is supposed to be dormant in adults, or whether the commonly named olfactory bulb, is the organ responsible for responding to pheromones. However, when suspected pheromones were tested against the VNO, they recorded reactions suggesting that neurons in the VNO were firing in response. The researchers believe that those cells in the VNO are sending electrical impulses to the hypothalamus, which then stimulates the pituitary gland to release or stop releasing certain hormones, perhaps causing sexual arousal.” Marshall gave a quick glance around to make sure everyone was keeping up, and beamed with pleasure that there were no blank faces in the circle.

“The theory is that the pheromones themselves come from apocrine glands. Those are found in large concentrations on the face, chest and wherever body hair exists." The doctor looked up from his notes again, casting a final probing glance around the room at the expressions. Lester and Ryan were holding what seemed to be a contest in impassivity, Ditzy was slightly pale, and Cutter an appealing shade of puce.

Marshall rushed back into speech, not wanting another eruption from the Scotsman. "Interestingly, apocrine glands actually become functional only after puberty, which is when we would most likely be searching for a mate."

He beamed at the others, who were all temporarily wearing expressions that could only be described as ‘gob-smacked’. Predictably, Lester was the first to regain the power of speech. "What an extremely distasteful thought."

Everyone else remained silent, varied and unpleasant scenarios running through minds that had no desire to accommodate them. The doctor looked quite crushed at the reaction to his lecture. Ditzy, after swallowing an inappropriately timed grin at the man’s chagrin, took over.

“Right. So, here’s the upshot of the situation. Hart seems to emit pheromones at various times that are probably three to four times stronger than the average human level. They also seem to be gender specific for his own sex, which is unusual.” He looked around, gauging people’s reactions based on their levels of understanding. “That’s enough to cause an involuntary sexual response in men, but not enough to cause them to completely lose control. Embarrass themselves, yes, but not more than that.”

Lester pursed his lips. “Enough to cause someone to make a pass, but not enough to justify rape.”

Everyone stared at him. It wasn’t like Lester to be so blunt without even a hint of sarcasm mixed in. He continued sombrely, “What are the chances that the lack of speech and this pheromone overload are not connected, and what are the chances that either was an accident in his creation?”

Doctor Marshall shook his head emphatically. “Oh, no chance at all, of either. The genetic markers for both are completely different; not connected to anything else at all! There is no possibility that either the muteness or the same-gender pheromone level is unintended. In fact, it might even explain the number of partially developed and malformed clones that were found in her laboratory. Tinkering of that intensity would require extreme precision. Why, the level of difficulty would be enormous!”

Cutter, who had been desperately holding himself back, finally burst forth, “But that’s appalling! Helen may be many things, but she’d never be callous enough to do something that disgusting deliberately!”

Everyone looked at each other, all finding it difficult to hold back snorts of derisive laughter. Sighing, Lester gave words to what they were all thinking. “Professor, you, I think, are the only person in this room who still manages to believe that Helen Cutter won’t do _anything_ and _everything_ she feels will advance her cause. The phrase ‘ _the end justifies the means_ ’ might have been coined for her. The woman has such a strong vision of what she believes _must be_ that she will do anything to bring it to fruition. After the bunker and what happened there, you should be well aware of that.”

Cutter subsided, looking devastated and a little embarrassed.

Ditzy even managed to dredge up a little sympathy for the man. After all their meetings, after all Helen had said and done, he must know that his wife was dancing on the knife edge of reason, occasionally even slipping across to flirt with the side of madness, but he still wanted to believe in her. Or perhaps it was more that he wanted to believe that he hadn’t been a fool to wait and hope for eight years that she would return to him. Or maybe it was just a habit. Who could tell?

Lester looked around. “So, what we must decide now is what to do about Hart.”

“Well, he certainly can’t leave the ARC again,” Doctor Marshall put in. “If he gives off those pheromones around some teenagers, or someone with sexual difficulties, lord knows what will happen.”

Ditzy nodded unhappily. Much as he hated the idea of keeping Hart a prisoner at the ARC, he knew that it could be too dangerous, not just to others, but to Hart himself to allow him to interact with too many people. “Agreed. Until we can develop something to mask the emission, we can’t have him running around the countryside. We will work on it, but we’re in uncharted territory here. Pheromone research is pretty new, pretty ‘far out there’, and we’re still breaking ground with any true scientific inquiry.”

When neither Ryan nor Cutter had anything to add, Lester made a note. “Very well. Continue your research, and until you have some results, Hart is to remain in the ARC.” He made a moue as he remembered the penny-pinching git from the Ministry. “And please limit his contact with visitors here, as well. We don’t want any unfortunate repercussions from the Home Office.”

xXx

Word travelled the ARC grapevine swiftly - stay away from Hart. He’s creepier than a graveyard at midnight.

 


	7. In Which the Isolation Deepens

By early afternoon, there was no one in the ARC who would remain in the vicinity of Stephen Hart. Any room he walked into emptied like an hourglass, slowly but steadily. No one made any obvious comments, or gave him any nasty looks, but they did make it abundantly clear that they would prefer to be rather a greater distance from him, thank you very much.

Ryan was in the break room reading the paper when Hart came in for coffee. He hadn’t looked up when the new person entered, but his attention was pulled away from the print in front of him when the volume of voices he had been filtering out steadily lowered, until there was a silence left over that almost pressed on his ears, as if cotton wool had been stuffed in them. He glanced around and saw, to his surprise, an almost empty space, with only one occupant other than himself.

Hart stood by the coffee machine waiting for it to finish brewing, a mug held so tightly in his grip that his knuckles were white. If he weren’t still fairly weak, the mug would probably be in shattered little shards on the floor and his hand would be a bloody ruin right now.

Hart glanced at Ryan, sneaking a quick look from the corner of his eye, his face turned slightly away. Ryan held his expression completely blank as their eyes met, hiding the uncomfortable sympathy he felt for the clone’s shunning. But even that sympathy made him suffer a keen sense of disloyalty to his Stephen's memory. This wasn’t Stephen, he told himself again, for - what was it, the hundredth maybe? - time. The body, the face, the movement, shit the everything was just too fucking like his lost lover! He didn’t think he could cope with the guilt that replacing his Stephen with a pale copy would produce. The absolute last thing he needed was for Hart to have an excuse to get close to him.

Hart’s gaze dropped and he stared into the empty mug again for a moment, lips tight, then set it down carefully and without another look at Ryan, trudged slowly from the room, shoulders slumped. Ryan didn’t see him for the rest of the day. No one did.

xXx

Hart was hardly seen by a soul for almost a week. After Ditzy told him that the pheromones seemed to be an innate part of his physiology, he spent the days in his room and the nights split between the break room for quick meals at odd times and the gym when no one else was using it. Even the anomaly alarms that used to at least bring him to the atrium to watch didn’t lure him any longer to show his face around others.

As he became physically stronger, he spent more time in the gym, but he still departed when he noticed anyone else come in; that is, if they didn’t see him first and make a quick u-turn to head for the metaphorical hills.

Ryan was too busy with a rash of anomalies to notice or care about Hart’s wellbeing except as it affected his men, and there seemed to be no problems with that at the moment. Then one afternoon, Ryan, accompanied by Blade and Kermit, popped into the gym for a quick bout.

Kermit had been swearing that he had a perfect counter for Blade’s latest knife sequence, and Ryan had agreed to referee the practice session. Blade and Kermit were deep in discussion as they headed for the mats at the side of the spacious open exercise area. Ryan, less involved, glanced around, surprised at how empty the room was. At this time of day, there were usually at least three or four, sometimes up to six or seven Special Forces men working out on the various machines.

Then he saw Hart at the far end, running on one of the treadmills. The clone was oblivious to everything around him. He was wearing headphones, and he had the treadmill on a fairly fast clip. His eyes were closed and he was sweating freely; he looked like he’d been running for a while. In fact, he looked like he was ready to drop but was still going on autopilot.

Ryan decided that, avoidance or not, comfort or not, he’d better keep an eye on Hart, just in case. Then after a moment, he realised he wasn’t reacting physically to Hart’s presence. He surreptitiously checked on Blade and Kermit. Neither were they. Ryan’s eyes narrowed. This might get interesting, after all.

He let Blade and Kermit scuffle, going over the strike and counter multiple times, refining techniques, trying new ideas. Ryan called them after about fifteen minutes, when Blade had managed to score enough bruising hits on Kermit to make Ditzy’s day, and the knife-man himself was actually sporting a bloody shoulder where a very lucky strike from the younger soldier had marked him.

Another quick glance at Hart had shown he was developing a bit of a stagger in his gait. This needed to be brought to a head right now. Ryan quickly checked himself. Nope, no tight trousers. Blade and Kermit? Still nothing there, either. Lucky thing they were analysing tactics rather than having a full-on match - that might actually have ended up becoming a trifle awkward. . .

He snapped his fingers at the other soldiers to gain their attention, and pointed his thumb at Hart; they stared first at Hart, then at him, then at each other.

“What the fuck, boss?” Kermit demanded. “When did he come in? You let us stay in here with him?” He looked as if he wanted to either kill Hart or make rapid tracks from the room, and the verdict on which option would be favoured was still up in the air.

Blade was more restrained. Green eyes narrow, he watched Hart for a minute, evaluating the man’s current state. He glanced down at the front of his combats, raised an eyebrow, then stared ostentatiously at Kermit’s trousers, which also showed no discernable reaction to Hart’s presence.

His slightly histrionic display pulled Kermit back from the edge of his incipient freak-out, and they both turned to Ryan for an explanation. Which he didn’t have.

Ryan shrugged. “Kermit, go ahead and grab a shower. Blade, call Ditzy. Hart looks like he’s going to drop any second, and it’ll probably take both of us to get him to bed in one piece, if he doesn’t have a fucking heart attack first. Double time, guys.”

Kermit threw Hart a slightly haunted glance and fairly squirted out the door. Blade simply nodded and disappeared, leaving Ryan to keep watch on the still unaware runner.

\--

Ditzy hustled in, handed Ryan an exasperated look after seeing Hart’s condition, and hurried over to the treadmill. He stopped a couple of feet away, not wanting to startle the exhausted man and hit his already overtaxed system with too large a burst of adrenaline.

“Stephen.” Ditzy repeated the name four times, gradually raising his volume on each iteration. Hearing the level of sound pouring from Hart’s headphones, he knew that it was useless after the second try, but went through the motions anyway; he was surprised the man wasn’t clinically deaf as well as mute after listening to that.

Motioning Ryan to stay back, even though the captain hadn’t made even a twitch in their direction, Ditzy reached out and very gently touched Hart’s shoulder. The tracker flinched and stumbled, making a frantic grab for the safety railing and missing as Ditzy hit the emergency stop. He flailed and crumpled to his knees, gasping for breath as his body crashed down from its running high and recognised just how much it had been abused.

“You idiot.” Ditzy gently removed the headphones so he could be heard. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

Hart knelt on the treadmill belt with his head hanging, almost sobbing for breath, clinging still to the safety rail. Sweat dripped from his face and down his neck to saturate his already soaked t-shirt, the thin material of shirt and sweatpants clinging to his frame as his ribcage heaved desperately, breath wheezing in a frantic attempt to rebuild his totally depleted oxygen reserves, and perhaps even to simply remain conscious.

“Shh.” Ditzy spoke slowly and gently, reverting to their first meeting. “Slow your breathing. You need deep breaths, not gasps. In - out - in - out, that’s right. You remember.”

Hart shuddered as the medic tried to calm him.

“Stephen, it’s okay. Look at me.”

The only response to that was a shake of the head and feigned interest in a scuffed spot on the floor, although his breathing had steadied a bit. Ditzy sighed and shook Stephen’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you to the infirmary. You look like you’re about to pass out. You need -”

Pulling back, Hart tried desperately to stand up and get away. _Successful_ could not in any way describe the outcome of the attempt. He barely made it halfway to a squat before his legs gave out and he sat down hard, an almost comical look of frustration on his face.

“Ryan, get your arse over here and help me,” Ditzy demanded. “I don’t give a fuck what your problem is, I am not going to carry him down to the infirmary by myself.”

Stephen shook his head frantically and tried to pull away again. Ditzy wasn’t having it. It was time that these two stubborn twats started to accept the fact that Hart existed. They didn’t have to be together, they just had to rub along sufficiently well not to cause even more problems than they already had. “I don’t give a fuck what your problem is, either, mister. You can’t even stand up; how the fuck you expect to run away I don’t know. Captain,” and the rank was given an extremely sarcastic twist, “this man needs your assistance. Are you going to give it, or are you going to run and hide?”

Ryan took a deep breath and gave Ditzy a look that signalled his intention to fully hand him one hell of a bollocking when they finished hauling Hart to the infirmary. Muscles stiff, face hard and expressionless, he marched over to the two men, motioned for the medic to take the off side, and grabbed Hart’s left arm. Pulling it over his shoulder, ignoring the man’s frantically shaking head, he started for the door, Ditzy matching him step by step. Between the two of them, they kept him moving despite his struggles, until, halfway to their destination, he simply surrendered, staring at the floor in front of his feet and allowing them to manhandle him how they would.

When they arrived in the infirmary, Ditzy and Ryan hauled Hart to the nearest bed. Ryan dropped his side, and the medic manoeuvred the tracker to fall the length of the mattress before motioning the captain from the room. With the terse order, “Stay!” Ditzy headed out to get some supportive care items.

Ditzy made it back to Hart’s room a couple of minutes later, carrying a protein and electrolyte drink and an IV bag. Hart was curled up on the bed, holding himself in a manner more than slightly reminiscent of how they’d originally found him.

“Drink this. Now,” Ditzy ordered, setting the glass down on the table next to the bed, figuring that ignoring the regression and treating the clone as he would have treated the original Stephen would be the most effective and kindest way to get through this mess.

As the medic hung the bag and prepared the IV needle, Hart uncurled a little, but didn’t reach for the glass. When he ran out of steam without even really trying, Ditzy sighed ostentatiously. “If you don’t drink it yourself, I swear to god I’ll stuff it up your arse.”

Looking as if he wanted to crawl into a hole somewhere, Hart ducked down again. Ditzy squatted beside the bed and forced the man to meet his eyes. “Stephen. We will get you through this. But only if you hang on. You can’t keep treating your body like this. It won’t do any good. You’re not going to be able to run away from the biology Helen saddled you with.”

The tracker’s eyes filled, but they looked more like tears of fury than pain.

“Good. Get angry. Get livid. Just don’t fucking give up, alright?” It felt like he was dredging the smile up from the tips of his toes, but Ditzy managed to fake it well enough that Stephen responded tentatively.

The tracker cautiously reached for the glass, but his hand was shaking so much that Ditzy had to help him hold it to his lips. Once he got half the liquid down, the trembles subsided enough that he was able to complete the draught on his own. Appearing rather triumphant, Stephen offered a hopeful glance to the IV.

“Uh-uh, you get it anyway,” the medic replied, having correctly interpreted the look. “First we refill you, then we get you back on your feet, then you take a shower. You don’t half stink.”

The dirty look that rewarded that statement made the medic chuckle, and Stephen managed to unearth a slight, if embarrassed, grin to return.

“Get some rest,” Ditzy ordered gently. “I’ll be back in a while to check on you. You. Do. Not. Leave. This. Bed. Understood?”

Stephen nodded and his eyes closed as the sedative Ditzy had slipped into his drink along with the electrolytes took rapid effect.

xXx

Ryan was sitting in the break room contemplating the dregs of coffee in his cup when Ditzy arrived to pour himself some tea. His desire to hand the medic a bollocking seemed to have subsided along with his spirits.

“How is Stephen?” Ditzy asked sarcastically when Ryan didn’t speak. “Glad you asked, boss; I have to tell you, he’s in pretty bad shape,” he replied to himself. “Exhausted, dehydrated, kidneys ready to pack it in, adrenals about to go on strike, and oh, just generally run down.”

Ryan tried to skewer the medic with a baleful look. Ditzy wasn’t put off. He’d seen a nastier glare from a kitten who’d had his milk bowl taken away. “Why?” he asked.

“Why, what?” Ryan’s voice held a lifeless note that Ditzy didn’t like.

Shit, they had to fix this situation. Hart was back in the infirmary tearing himself up because he wasn’t what Ryan wanted, and Ryan was closing down because he didn’t dare believe in second chances. And neither of them able to talk to the other: Hart from physical limitation, and Ryan from guilt at not being there for his lover when Stephen had needed him desperately. Ditzy gave up on control and allowed himself to lose it, just a bit.

“Why did you let that go on? Why did you ignore him? Why were you just fucking _watching_ him as he ran himself to the edge of a fucking heart attack?”

“Because none of us were reacting to him.” Ryan still sounded empty, but there was a slight bit of confusion creeping in.

That set the medic back on his heels. There had to be something somewhere in this that could be used to help Stephen. “Explain.” He moved close and sat next to Ryan. “With as many details as you can.”

“We went in. Hart was running, Blade and Kermit were involved with their discussion and didn’t notice him. I watched, them and him.” Ryan shook his head. “No arousal, no nothing.”

Ditzy nodded thoughtfully. “Okay. When did Blade and Kermit see him?”

“After about fifteen minutes. I pointed him out. Kermit freaked, but more just from the memory of last time, I think. Even after they saw him too, none of us reacted erotically.”

“How did they take that? And I suppose Hart still didn’t know you were there?”

“Blade shrugged it off. You know him, he’s so used to getting his rocks off at bizarre times that this whole situation hasn’t fazed him at all. Kermit freaked, like I said. Partly I think because he hadn’t reacted, and still wasn’t reacting even once they knew he was there. Hart never saw us. I sent them off, and watched out for him while I waited for you.”

Ditzy sighed. “Yeah, well, next time take your _watching out_ a little more actively. Another ten minutes and he really would have keeled over with a heart attack. And I’m serious.”

“Yeah. I am sorry about that.” Ryan’s eyes were full of pain, now. “I just - shit, Ditzy, I don’t know what to do.”

“Take each day as it comes, boss, just like we always do.” Clapping Ryan on the shoulder, the medic nodded, then sauntered out of the room with a fresh cup of tea in his hand and a thoughtful expression on his face.

\--

An hour later, Ryan got a call to report to Lester’s office. He arrived to find Ditzy sitting there looking rather intent, and Lester on the other hand looking rather put out.

“Sir? You wanted me?” Ryan didn’t sit down. He really didn’t like the look of this.

“Yes, Captain. Please sit.” Lester didn’t seem to be in the mood for anything even slinking around the edges of noncompliance, so Ryan sat immediately.

“Lieutenant Owen has an idea.” Lester’s tone gave the distinct impression that Ditzy was offering him fried caterpillars on toast, rather than a possible way to confirm Hart’s effect on others.

Ditzy grinned. “Would you like me to explain it, Sir?” he asked, helpfully.

“Please. I find the idea most distasteful, even if it might possibly be effective.”

Ticking items off on his fingers, left hand for positive and right hand for negative, Ditzy went through the list. “Okay, we have Hart affecting: Kermit in the woods, and you in the showers. On the other hand, we have Hart not affecting: the medical teams, the lot of us in that meeting, and you guys today in the gym. Agreed?”

Ryan nodded. “So far.”

The medic folded his hands. “I think that the pheromones he emits, though strong, may be fairly ‘thin’ for lack of a better word. Both of the times people have been affected by him, they’ve been alone with him. In the woods, and in the showers. Boss, when you saw him in the showers, what scents were there?”

“Not much.” Ryan reluctantly thought back to that day. “Finn wasn’t there, so that god-awful shower gel his latest gave him wasn’t stinking up the place. I think Hart was just using some of the unscented gel we leave there for spares.”

“Exactly. And out in the woods, there wouldn’t have been any of the usual chemical smells we cover all natural scents with.”

Ryan raised an eyebrow at that slightly odd statement, only to glance over at Lester and see exactly the same flying eyebrow on the civil servant. Ryan quickly lowered his own, knowing that in an eyebrow-raising contest, Lester would always win by more than just a hair. Ditzy was fighting a grin at the byplay when the captain looked back at him. Struggling against his own urge to pout like a toddler, Ryan asked, “And so?”

\--

The medic managed to gather the rags of his self control and wrap himself in them, tattered as they were. He knew he was simply reacting to the oddness of the day and his intense desire to help the unfortunate man sleeping down in the infirmary, but he wouldn’t be of any use to anyone unless he could manage to get his idea across in a totally dispassionate manner. He needed Ryan’s backing on this one - and not reluctant backing, but wholehearted. He took a deep breath.

“So, what if it only works one on one? And what if other scents, chemical scents, override it? Lots of chemicals in the infirmary, and correct me if I’m wrong, but the conference room we used had been painted fairly recently.”

“Not wrong,” Ryan responded with a slight grimace. “Rather stunk in there.”

“And in the gym today, with the others and after, when you were alone?” At Ditzy’s questioning look, Ryan stopped, thought, and nodded. “Ah, yes, that sodding air freshener hanging that Abby left behind yesterday.”

“The ‘Outdoor Fresh’ one.” Ditzy shuddered. “I think I’ve never smelled anything less like ‘Outdoors’ and farther from ‘Fresh’ in my life.”

The small joke took the edge off the atmosphere in the room. Even Lester looked less forbidding. Ditzy figured the time was ripe to throw out his idea.

“So, what I think we should do is this."

 


	8. In Which Answers are Uncovered

Ryan watched over the security feed as the last of the Special Forces soldiers entered the waiting room, saw Hart sitting in the corner and immediately headed for the other side of the room, which was beginning to look a bit like Waterloo Station at rush hour.

"What's going on?" the new soldier asked Blade, who was the closest man to the door with his eyes still open. Most of the others had obviously decided a quick nap was the perfect way to stave off the boredom of waiting.

"Beats me," the knife-man replied. "Some new vaccination against a bug they discovered last week, I think."

"Bloody wonderful," the other man said with disgust. "Just what I needed this morning. Another pain in the arse."

Dragging his attention away from his Smartphone game page, Finn piped up cheerfully. "I heard this one is in the arm, mate. Guaranteed to make the offended limb immovable for the next six hours."

"Fucking hell," was the man's only response as he too closed his eyes for a kip.

Sitting next to Ryan in Security, Ditzy sighed ostentatiously. "See what we have to put up with? No one loves us, even when we're saving their sorry arses."

"Maybe if your hands were warmer," Ryan responded with amusement.

"Hmph. Cold hands, warm heart," Ditzy grumbled.

They stopped their mock bickering, noting reactions as each name was called and the men started to exit the room one by one. The three minute delay between had been determined to be the optimal amount of time; long enough for an effect to be noticed but not long enough for anyone affected to freak out too badly.

As the room gradually emptied, some of those left began to show more signs of discomfort at Hart's presence, but the discomfort didn't seem to be sexually based from what the watchers could see. And Hart sat alone, unmoving.

"Are you sure the filters will work to mask the hospital smell but not override anything emitted by the clone?" Ryan asked.

Ditzy gave him a slightly revolted look that said plainly, _You still can't even call him by name unless you have to, can you?_ "Filter's on the vent flowing into the room, not masking anything inside the room. And we put Hart on the vent side so any pheromones will blow straight towards the men." He snorted, simultaneously disgusted and amused. "Big dangerous Special Forces soldiers. They look like a herd of sheep huddling when they hear a wolf howl."

Ryan dredged up a faint smile. The comparison really was both apt and entertaining.

Hart stayed in his corner, now either still napping off his exhaustion of the day before, or feigning sleep, Ryan wasn't sure which. It didn't matter, though, since that played exactly into what they wanted from this test. They wanted to see if the men would react to him under controlled conditions, when none were under any unusual stress.

After about thirty five minutes, the only ones left were Blade and Finn. And since Blade had already shown that he might not react, they had decided, with fingers crossed, that Finn would be the final one in the room. When Blade's name was called, Finn gulped a little at being the last man standing, but when Blade had been gone for a couple of minutes and nothing happened, Finn relaxed again.

Ditzy shrugged and spoke into the mike feed to the exam room. "Okay, guys, call Finn in for his 'vaccination', wait 'til he's gone, then bring Hart in for his B12 shot and a protein drink. Thanks, all, for your assistance."

They regrouped back in the medical office. Dr. Marshall was almost beside himself with disappointment. "I was sure this would give us the results we needed," he complained.

"Maybe it did," Ditzy said slowly, and Lester and Ryan traded a glance as they caught on.

To their nods, Ditzy took pity on the still at-sea physician. "Maybe we’ve been looking at it backwards. Maybe the trigger isn't just the men being near Hart, maybe Hart's own comfort level is the key."

Ryan picked up a pencil and started rolling it between his fingers. "So, what controlled situation can we put him in that makes him uncomfortable?"

Lester smiled, a crocodile’s grin that Ryan wouldn't have wanted to be aimed at him. It reminded him a little too much of the faces on a monstrous T. _rex_ pack they’d fought in the Forest of Dean. Which sent another pang through him at the memory. He and Stephen had been so new then. . . He forced his attention back to the present in time to hear Lester’s words.

"We need a situation where Hart might be just a little off balance, as happened with the tracking? Something he used to be good at, but might be unsure of now? Yes? Then tell me, has Dr. Hart been recertified on weapons, yet?"

Ryan almost shot to his feet. In an impressive display of control, he slowly placed the pencil back on the desk and eyed Lester as if the man were actually in his gun sights. "You intend to put Hart into a room, alone, stressed, with a Special Forces soldier and a lot of weapons?" Unspoken were the phrases _Are you totally insane?_ and _Will you take responsibility for any resulting bloodshed?_

Lester would have grinned if he'd felt it wouldn't completely ruin his reputation. Sometimes the Special Forces captain was so easy to taunt. The correct turn of phrase, and the soldier greedily snatched at the bait every time. "We will, of course, choose the soldier carefully. We don't want anyone particularly excitable or trigger happy."

Ryan tensed, then subsided, allowing his own amusement to show through. No matter how many times it happened, Lester would always be the top scorer in any snark competition. Point to the civil servant. But he was damned if he’d add another chunk of enjoyment to Lester’s day. "Okay,” he responded levelly. “That leaves out Kermit. He’s too stressed over this entire situation. Fiver's not the top rifle-man in the unit, hand weapons are more his forte. I'm out, because I know what's happening, and Ditzy's the same."

Ditzy nodded. "So, that leaves Blade, Lyle, Finn, or one of Stringer's team."

"Blade, I think," Ryan replied. "I’d like to keep Lyle as backup for now. He hasn’t had much involvement as yet. Stringer's men are all ace, but I don't know them as well as I do Blade. Couldn't say how they'd react to Hart's little emanations. Blade was in the gym, so we know he's not overly susceptible to his own mind fucking him over."

"Agreed," Ditzy said. "Finn would be the obvious choice since he's our best sniper, but he was final man in on the last test. If we put him in again he's going to start thinking we're testing him instead. Blade's almost as good with a gun, and he has the best self control of any of the men."

Lester thinned his lips as he tried not to think of all the things that could go wrong with this admittedly outré plan, and tried not to show his relief that they were leaving Lyle out of the calculations. There was a slight though distinct possibility of a very nasty outcome, but they couldn't continue on the way they were. It wasn't fair to the soldiers and it wasn't fair to Hart. The man hadn't chosen to be how Helen had created him. And that thought annoyed Lester more than anything so far. He actually seemed to be developing that horrible sentiment known as empathy. He really must find a way to have it expunged.

"Very well. Put Finn on the list to test Hart, then get him out of the way in the morning and send Blade in as a substitute."

"Finn won't be happy when he sees his name."

"Simply assure him they won't be alone at any time," Lester replied. "He won't know it's a lie, since he won't be the one going in."

Off Ryan's sideways look, Lester smiled faintly and swept out of the room, leaving Ditzy and Ryan to put their heads together and work out how to stage-manage this little scenario.

xXx

The entire setup went off without a hitch. Finn grizzled a bit at being the one to have to recertify Hart on weapons, but his uneasiness was tempered by the compliment that in being chosen he was acknowledged as the best sniper they had, and when he was called away just before the test he actually seemed a little disappointed.

Blade, as unconcerned as usual, simply said, “Sure, no problem. He ready now?” and headed off to the firing range. Ryan shook his head, wondering just what it would take to make the man lose his cool.

\--

Hart was already at the bench, ear-defenders draped around his neck, setting out rifles and pistols when Blade arrived. “Sorry, Finn was called away. Rifles first, I think.”

Hart nodded, clipped the target to the mobile frame and sent it out with a questioning smile at Blade.

“Top distance, I think,” Blade smiled in return. “Don’t want to make it too easy for you.”

Hart’s smile slipped a little as he positioned his ear-defenders. He looked as if he was bracing himself for disappointment. Or failure. Blade nodded and stepped back, placing his own ear-defenders on as Hart raised the rifle, checked the load and settled into his stance. Blade watched, concentrating on the finer details of balance and position as Hart started firing. The soldier was so focussed that it wasn’t until the zipper on his trousers scraped his erection that he even realised that he had a hard-on that could easily be used to hammer nails.

“Son of a - “ He’d barely got the words out when Ditzy sauntered in, glanced at his crotch, and sprayed a quick squirt of insect repellent onto the table beside him. “SHIT!” One whiff and he had to strangle a sneeze.

The medic shook his head and nodded at Hart, who was still shooting, unaware of the drama taking place behind him. “How do you feel now?” he asked.

Blade took rapid inventory. His erection had subsided, and not just from the surprise of Ditzy showing up so appropriately. This was a fucking setup. He turned an extremely aggravated look on the medic, who returned one of sympathy.

“Sorry,” Ditzy whispered. “We had to know what causes it. And you were the person least likely to lose your shit if things went pear-shaped.”

Accepting the slightly backhanded compliment for what it was, Blade noticed that Hart had stopped firing and was looking back at Ditzy with an expression of mingled apprehension and irritation. He knew something was going on, but he didn’t know what, and he looked like he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know, either.

Blade sighed, shook his head at Ditzy and motioned for Hart to pull the target in. Every hole was within the centre ring. One, and one only, barely grazed the edge. Blade rolled it up and set it aside. “Okay, Glock next. Should be just as good. Looks like you haven’t lost your shooting talent any more than your tracking talent.”

Hart relaxed a little, partly from the verification of his ability, partly from the fact that Blade wasn’t going to abandon the test, and partly that it seemed Ditzy wasn’t there with a problem for him.

The rest of the test went smoothly, even after the odour of the insect repellent wore off.

Ditzy nodded at Blade and headed out as the soldier watched the tracker start cleaning the weapons. They were now side by side, and Hart was actually smiling a little, and Blade was leaning nonchalantly on the wall with no suspicious bulges in sight.

xXx

“So, we know it happens unconsciously. We know it happens when Hart is unsure of himself and needs reassurance or comfort. We know that multiple scents or strong scents being present override it,” Jenny Lewis said, then added drily, “Perhaps we should simply spray perfume into the air conditioning intake.”

When that attempt at a joke went over like a fart in church, Jenny glanced at her notes and took a deep breath. “The only thing I can see that we haven’t tested is whether the presence of multiple people stops the effect.” Damn, she hated having to play catch-up like this. She really wished they’d told her about this insane test they’d decided upon before they’d executed it. And she was quite surprised that Lester had actually agreed. The civil servant must have been as desperate as a field mouse in a cat’s cradle to go along with such potentially perilous lunacy. No one had told her it had been Lester’s idea to start with. If they had, she probably would have considered having him sectioned.

She looked around the table at the group of men: Lester, Ryan, Ditzy, Dr. Marshall, Cutter, and Lieutenant Lyle, who had been pulled in as a neutral sounding board.

Ditzy shook his head. “I did manage to check that, actually. I didn’t say anything at the time, but Blade started to ‘deflate’ as soon as I walked into the firing range. The bug spray put the cap on it, but my presence began to mitigate the effects immediately. It is empirical, but I think the pheromones really are thin enough that multiple people’s scents override them, just as chemical scents will override for a single person.”

“You’re sure about that?” Dr. Marshall didn’t look convinced. “There hasn’t been an actual test for it.”

Lester sighed. “We’ve tested, I think, all that we can for now. The men are starting to get suspicious every time they’re assigned to a duty with Dr. Hart, and he is - well, ‘closing down’ is the best description I can come up with.” In his turn, he looked around the table. “Any other comments?”

The shaking heads could have been choreographed. Even Cutter seemed to have nothing left to say.

“Lieutenant Lyle?” Lester raised an eyebrow.

Lyle grinned. After all this time, he was immune to that particular expression. “Sir, with all due respect, I’ve thought this entire commotion was a waste of time. Hart may have had an ‘unfortunate’ effect on some people, but he’s never made a move that could even hint as taking advantage of it. I say let him loose. Anyone who gets a hard-on just goes into the bog and takes care of it. Problem solved.”

Dr. Marshall blustered like a Fox Terrier facing an Alsatian. “My dear Lieutenant Lyle, you’re not thinking straight! What if Dr. Hart is out in public? What about his effect on youngsters, and people with sexual difficulties? What then, Sir?”

Lyle snorted, wondering vaguely if the man was always this excitable. “They just told you that crowds, other scents, and chemical odours override it. Outside, in the city, there’s exhaust fumes, perfumes, road works stench, you name it. In the country, maybe all we need is to make sure he stays current on insect repellent. That seemed to work on the firing range.” He grinned. “And it’ll help his little problem with ticks, too.” Carefully not glancing at Ryan, who looked like he was couldn’t decide whether to explode like an overinflated balloon or deflate like a punctured one, Lyle sat back with a ‘case closed’ expression on his face.

Dr. Marshall gawped, then started gulping like a fish out of water. No one else said a word.

After a couple of minutes, when the group still looked like some avant-garde assortment of statues, Jenny turned to Lester, who smirked and said, “Very well. Captain Ryan, Lieutenant Lyle, please inform the Special Forces group that Dr. Hart is considered to be safe, especially in group situations. Any physical reaction when meeting privately can simply be ignored, or taken care of surreptitiously in the usual fashion.” The soldiers nodded, carefully not looking at Jenny, who just as carefully didn’t look back. “Professor Cutter, Ms Lewis, please inform all civilians of the same, in whatever wordage strikes your fancy. And Lieutenant Owen, Dr. Marshall, the medical personnel are to be given the okay, also. Am I clear?” He looked directly at the physician.

Marshall nodded unhappily, the others with relief. They scattered to perform the requested duty with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

 

 


	9. In Which Ryan Receives a Lecture

"Okay, chaps, listen up." Ryan's parade ground tone grabbed the attention of every soldier in the ready room faster than anomalies snatched metal. "As you probably figured out by now, we've been running some tests on our prodigal tracker."

The men traded glances, and not a few also exchanged some cash, with accompanying grumbles and congrats. Ryan suppressed a grin; bloody hell, they’d even been running a book on that!

"We're going to tell you more than we normally would, for your comfort and for Hart's safety." He motioned to the door and Blade and Stephen entered, the soldier taking up position by the door, and Stephen moving reluctantly midway between him and Ryan. "Helen Cutter recreated Stephen Hart with a biological quirk that's sodding uncomfortable for him and anyone else around him.” A few men chuckled, but most simply continued giving Ryan their polite attention.

The captain continued, “But here's the three things that make it tolerable: it only occurs when he's nervous, it only occurs when he's alone with someone, and any strong unnatural scent will override it. So unless he gets anxious, nothing happens." He grinned. "So, to butcher a movie quote: Don't scare him, you'll like him too much if he's scared."

Hart blushed as all eyes turned to him, some amused, a few disgusted, but none frightened any more. He gulped and stuffed his hands in his pockets, fighting the urge to sink into the floor.

Blade took some steps closer, making it obvious that he was backing up their tracker. At Ryan's nod, he spoke to his compatriots, man to man. "I spent two hours alone with Hart this morning. I got a hard-on once. I ignored it. Ditzy came in and it went away. So no reason to get your knickers in a twist. No one's going to get hurt, and it's not even about you. Just because you get a random stiffie doesn't mean you're going to start wearing lacy pants and wanting cock."

Hart's blush deepened and Ryan thanked his lucky stars that he wasn’t as easy a blusher as the younger man. There wasn't a soldier in the room who by now didn't know about their captain’s relationship with the original Stephen Hart, and he could feel their eyes tracking back and forth between Hart and him, assessing and wondering. He could also, without even glancing at the tracker, feel that Stephen was doing his best to avoid looking at him.

\--

Lyle figured that it was about time to break the tension, before it managed to suffocate everyone. He waved a thumb in the air. "So, upshot is, guys, we can all relax. We don't have to take him out and dump him through an anomaly, and we can also take pre-emptive extermination off the table."

Some men grinned, and a few of them laughed out loud. Ryan’s eyes widened, then narrowed dangerously, and Blade’s face went blank. But the most affected was Hart. He turned absolutely white and looked like he was either going to faint or try to run. His knees buckled and he turned a stare of complete wide-eyed betrayal on Lyle, who suddenly realised he’d taken a very long stride over the line.

“Oh, bollocks! Shit, I’m sorry, Hart. It was a joke, just a joke. I didn’t mean it. Wouldn’t do it. Never thought of it.” Lyle realised he was babbling and turned to Ryan for succour.

Ryan stood there, unmoving, glaring at Lyle as if wishes could vaporise the man.

Stephen stared at Ryan curiously for a moment, then took a deep breath and met Lyle's repentant gaze, his own hurt and resentment at being the butt of such a brutal joke showing in his eyes.

For the first time in many years, Jon Lyle was thoroughly ashamed of himself. And he was man enough to own it. Standing up, he walked slowly over to face Hart, passing Blade who moved reluctantly out of his way. The closer he got, the more Hart pulled himself inward, somehow managing to make himself smaller at every step. The soldier stopped in front of him, reached out a hand, ignoring Hart’s instinctive flinch as it got closer, and placed it on Hart’s shoulder, pressing gently.

“I am more sorry than I can say, Stephen,” he said softly, but clearly enough for everyone in the room to hear. “It was supposed to be a stupid joke, so out-there that it couldn’t possibly be taken seriously. I forgot, and didn’t take into account what you’ve been through yourself these last weeks. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it, and I hope you can forgive me, or at least accept the apology.”

Hart looked directly into his eyes, searching for truth, searching for disgust, searching for dislike. He found truth, self-disgust, and no dislike whatsoever. He closed his eyes and nodded, with a slightly watery smile. Lifting his own hand, he placed it over Lyle’s on his shoulder in acknowledgement. Then he felt a slight extra weight. Blade had stepped over and added his to the grip. With a quick nod, the knife-man moved over in front of the group, and asked, “Anyone want to add to the ‘joke’?”

The soldiers looked at Ryan, who simply said, “The man asked a question.”

Finn piped up, “Nah, no jokes. Besides, I’m tired of being the only guy who can actually shoot around here. Welcome back, Dr. Hart.”

The entire room turned on him, berating the corporal to within an inch of his life for the boast. He winked at Stephen, and started to give as much as he was getting.

\--

Once the room calmed down again, Ryan sent everyone back to their duties, with the exception of Blade and Ditzy. To Blade, he said, “Thank you. I know I appreciate it, and I’m pretty sure Hart does, too.” He glanced over at Stephen, who nodded but didn’t come any closer.

Blade replied, “No problem. See you around, Hart.” With a respectful salute, he left the room.

“Ditz, I think Hart needs some rest. I bloody well know I do.” He turned to Stephen fully for the first time, looking at him rather than through him. “Stephen,” he said, knowing that the first name would carry weight. “I’m sorry, too. These last few weeks have been a bitch for me; and I just couldn’t see past myself to notice it’s been hard on you, too. That you’d think Lyle was actually serious is an indictment of our - of my - treatment of you. So, if you can, I’d be happy if you’d accept my apology, too.”

Hart slowly brought himself to meet Ryan’s gaze, his face totally blank. He nodded slightly before turning to Ditzy and pleading with his eyes to be rescued. Ditzy grinned. “I think we all need some alone time. Let’s get together later, okay? Take a while to calm down.”

Ryan nodded. “Still in rest-room four?”

“Still in rest-room four,” Ditzy echoed, clasped Hart’s shoulder and escorted the slightly more tranquil tracker from the room. They’d just proved the final supposition: not one man in the room had reacted to Stephen’s horror. Groups were definitely safe.

xXx

Jon Lyle re-entered the room ten minutes later, to find a still-shocked Ryan sitting on the couch, staring at the floor in front of him as if it held the knowledge of the ages.

“You staying the night here, boss?” he asked.

Ryan looked up at him, confusion and fury making for a very unhealthy expression. Lyle braced himself for a volcanic eruption. He got one. For the next ten minutes, Ryan tore multiple strips out of him, cataloguing his actions, his ancestry, his antecedents, his qualifications as an officer, and his current place in evolution as a human being. When the captain finally ran down after not repeating himself even once, Lyle was standing at attention and prepared to check himself for a new arsehole. He’d have done it too, if he’d been sure Ryan was actually over his snit. To test the waters, he took a deep breath. “Sir, permission to ask a question?”

The response from Ryan was positive, but with one hell of a warning growl in it.

“Right,” Lyle continued, relaxing, “I think it’s about time you admit that you actually care about Hart; you wouldn’t be quite so impressively pissed off about him being upset if he means nothing to you.”

“That wasn’t a bloody question,” Ryan groused.

“Don’t wriggle,” Lyle advised him. “You’re not a worm on a hook. Shit, Tom, you think I didn’t know you two were an item even before we lost him? I’m not sodding blind, you know. So either admit you still care, or deny it.”

The captain opened his mouth to tell his subordinate to fuck off, but he couldn’t force the words out. His mouth snapped shut, he surged to his feet and turned his back, running his hands through his hair.

“If you’re going for the just-fucked look, you’re doing pretty well,” Lyle couldn’t resist adding.

Ryan turned back and Lyle waited for the next explosion. Instead, Ryan’s shoulders slumped and he dropped back onto the couch to scrub his face and stare at the ceiling. “Damn it.”

Lyle smiled. “Good. Step in the right direction. Next step - talk to Hart for fuck’s sake. And I mean talk. Tell him if there’s a chance for him and you. I think the hope of that is all that’s keeping him going, honestly.”

\--

 “Huh?” Ryan felt as if he’d just taken a header in the local Cheese Chase and hadn’t stopped rolling yet.

“Hart. Hates. Himself.” Lyle looked at Ryan curiously. “You haven’t figured that out?”

“But, why?” Now Ryan’s head was spinning.

“The man knows he’s not ‘right’. He knows you miss ‘Stephen’. Bugger it, he knows he’s not the ‘real thing’ to you. I’ve seen him look at you, boss, and it gives me a belly-ache. The man’s in serious pain where you’re concerned. He loves you.”

“He - loves - me?” Still not quite sure what world he’d suddenly dropped into, where Lieutenant Jon Lyle was giving him relationship advice, Ryan managed to choke the words out.

“Yeah, you silly bugger. That bitch created him with ALL of Stephen Hart’s memories. You think she somehow excised just the memories of you two together? You think that Hart didn’t think about you as he died? You think this Stephen is any different, really, in his mind and heart than the original?”

“Stop, my head hurts.”

“Nope, not going to stop. This is Jon your friend talking, not Lyle your subordinate. I may run my fucking mouth sometimes, but I can see what’s right in front of my face. So, answer one question for me.”

“Is it really going to be a question this time?”

“Yes, fuckwit. And here it is: if Stephen Hart had lost a leg and been fitted with an artificial one, or had his vocal cords paralyzed in an accident, would you throw him away?”

“Fuck no!” Ryan stared, then metaphorically sat back on his heels. It wasn’t often that Lyle managed to catch him wrong-footed, but this time he certainly had.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “He has all the memories, all the feelings. All he’s missing is a few scars. That’s what you’re trying to tell me, isn’t it? This is Stephen. In every way that matters.”

“Ding ding ding,” said Lyle sardonically. “Give the man a prize. Took you sodding well long enough, though.”

Ryan grinned, feeling as if he’d shed ten years in the last five minutes - the same ten years he’d had dropped on his shoulders the day he returned home only to find his lover in the ground. Now all he had to do was convince Ditzy, and Stephen Hart himself, that he’d finally, actually, completely come to his senses. . .

 


	10. In Which the Lost Finds a Home

Ryan clapped Lyle on the shoulder with gratitude, and his lieutenant grinned and said, “Shoo. Go find him. Do the hearts and flowers bit, but please do it quietly. I really want to keep my lunch inside where it belongs.”

With a rude gesture, Ryan headed for the infirmary. First he had to make an ally of Ditzy. . .

“Captain, something I can do for you?” Lieutenant Owen was determined to keep things formal. Ryan was bloody well going to have to prove he wouldn’t hurt Hart again. The tracker had been stuffed through an emotional mangle today, and Ditzy was damned if anyone, even Ryan, was going to make him feel worse.

“Yeah, Ditz, maybe.” Ryan wasn’t going to play that game, he was going to start his own. “I had a thought. If the unfortunate effect happens when Hart is unsure of himself, maybe the key is to just make him feel more accepted. Does that make sense?”

“Um, yeah, sure,” Ditzy agreed, doing his best to hide a grin, hoping this was going where he thought it was. Forcing himself not to start dancing with glee, he raised a hand in query. “What exactly did you have in mind, boss?”

“Ah, crap.” Ryan caught the grin and knew he was fucked. “Bloody hell, Ditz, I should know better.”

“Uh-huh. And?”

“Yeah, Lyle just kicked my arse up around my ears. Made me see what was right in front of my bloody eyes - this really is Stephen, in every way that matters. Isn’t he?” The captain really didn’t like the pleading tone of that last question, but it was too late to take it back.

The medic didn’t even think of taking the piss. This was way too important to make jokes about. “He is, and I’m very glad you’ve finally seen that. Now that you have, what do you intend to do about it? You think you can just walk up to him, smile, and he’ll fall into your arms?”

“I should be so lucky,” Ryan muttered, barely loud enough for Ditzy to catch. “No, I think it’ll be a little harder than that. But I do intend to try. Maybe just getting together and talking, to start.” At Ditzy’s raised eyebrow, he grunted. “Yeah, I know it’ll be twenty questions, but if that’s all we got, that’s what we work with.”

“Good man. It won’t be a walk in the park, I can guarantee it. We’ve hurt him, and Helen fucked him over horribly. He’s going to be difficult.”

Ryan snorted. “You didn’t know him at the beginning. Emotional basket case would have been an understatement even back then. We’ll figure it out - together.”

Ditzy nodded happily. “Right, then. Take him home tonight.”

Caught on the hop, Ryan gawped at him. “Huh? Just like that? No caveats? No threats? And what will Lester do when he finds out?”

“Yep, just like that. Lester won’t be a problem; he knew about your affair with Stephen and didn’t give a damn back in the day. He may be a bastard, but he’s not a hypocrite. And if it takes care of the problems with Hart now, I think he’ll be ready to dance on his desk _and_ pay for your meal. Take Hart out to dinner and _talk_ , take him home, and if you’ve connected again, fuck him through the mattress. If things are still rocky, just hold him. You’ll know which is right when the time comes.”

“You have more confidence in me than I do,” Ryan mumbled as he headed out the door, his gait deliberate and his gaze unfocussed as he started planning his campaign.

xXx

Ryan took a deep breath, and his courage in his hands, and knocked on the rest-room door. Time passed, and he was about to conclude that the room was empty when the door opened slowly to show a despondent Stephen. He made no greeting, simply stood there staring over Ryan’s shoulder. He didn’t need to meet the soldier’s eyes for Ryan to know that he was barely hanging on.

“Lyle says that sometimes my head is so far up my arse that it’s surprising that I can’t do my own Upper GI inspection.” As an opener, it wasn’t the best line Ryan had ever come up with, but it at least had the advantages of being honest and straightforward.

And also perhaps a little surprising to Hart, since his eyes widened for a second, before finally meeting those of the man standing outside.

“May I come in?” Ryan asked, hesitantly. “I know I don’t really deserve it, but I would like to talk. I’ll talk from here, if you’d rather, but if I’m going to bare my soul,” and he gave a weak grin, “I’d really prefer to do it in private.”

Hart examined him like dung under a microscope, eyes ranging over his face almost clinically before he nodded and stepped aside to allow Ryan to enter. He moved over to the small table and sat, still watching Ryan expressionlessly. The soldier reminded himself that breathing was always a good thing - god, he hated having to talk about feelings! - and, without further invitation, he joined Hart at the table.

“I’ve been a total prat,” he started out. “I know, I don’t really need to tell you that - you’ve been the recipient of most of my stupidity, but I wanted to tell you that I know it now, too.”

Hart stared blankly. In fact, it was that total emptiness that gave Ryan some hope. The only time Stephen Hart’s face went blank like that was when he was trying desperately to hide something that he was afraid his expression would give away.

“When I lost Stephen -” Ryan stopped, catching the tiniest of flinches on the face of the man in front of him. He seemed to have become hyper-aware of Hart and every nuance of expression and movement. He was glad of that, since the only chance he had of repairing their relationship was to be able to read this Stephen as well as he could the original. And he was discovering more and more each moment just how alike they were.

The Stephen he first met would have hidden his own pain just as thoroughly, and would have given it away just as subtly. Granted, the later Stephen would have thumped him long before now for the way he’d been acting. . .

“When I lost you,” Ryan rephrased, and the fractional dip of impossible eyelashes told him he’d chosen the word correctly, “I thought I’d lost everything. I don’t know if anyone thought to tell you, but I got back from that sodding mission the day after your funeral. I think I hated my job more that day than I ever had before in my career.”

He sighed, forcing himself to talk to Stephen, not his own hands, or the wall, or the tabletop, all of which did their best to grab his attention. “But in spite of hating it, it was probably the only thing that kept me going. I just concentrated on the job, not thinking, and did my sodding best to keep going. Then you came back,” and this time Ryan had to pinch the bridge of his nose to stop the incipient tears - shit, when had he turned into a teenage girl who’d lost her lover? “And I just couldn’t believe it. I’d never really mourned you, and now here was this copy -”

Hart started to rise, and Ryan reached out to take his hand. The tracker stopped in shock and sank back into his seat. It was the first time Ryan had touched him voluntarily since they’d found him in Helen's lab.

Ryan didn’t let go, even started stroking the back gently. “It took me quite a while to realise I was looking one incredibly valuable gift horse in the mouth.”

Stephen stared as if mesmerised at their hands, entwined on the table.

Continuing the slow strokes, Ryan kept on talking, starting to feel a little desperate at the lack of response. “Lyle phrased it perfectly a while ago. He asked if I’d turn away if you lost your voice in an accident. The answer was - and is - no, I bloody well wouldn’t.”

It was the ‘and is’ that finally made Stephen actually look at him for the first time since they’d sat. The gaze was still a bit tentative, with an ache around the edges that Ryan wanted desperately to erase, but he didn’t pull away, and there was no anger there any more. He gave a tentative smile, and Ryan wanted to jump up, dance him around the room and kiss him senseless.

The captain closed his eyes in relief and let out a long, slow breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He took the hand and clasped it between both of his own, and whispered, “My god, thank you. I know we can’t just pick up where we left off when I was posted; I’ve been too much of a twat for that, but I’d like to start again, fresh, from whatever point we can. Would you like to do that?”

When Hart’s smile turned a little shaky and he nodded his head, Ryan almost couldn’t believe his luck. And knowing that Stephen Hart’s immense capacity for loyalty would make him forgive almost anything stabbed the soldier with an almost physical pain. He made a private promise that he would be worthy of that kind of loyalty. The phrase _Stephen would have_ would never pass his synapses, let alone his lips. This _was_ Stephen, back home again. And seemingly still his, having made it past hell and high water.

Ryan came back to the present to see Hart staring quizzically at him, and to realise that he was gripping the tracker’s hand almost hard enough to hurt. He chuckled ruefully. “Had a gormless look on my face for a minute there, didn’t I?” he asked.

Stephen ghosted a silent laugh, nodding as he tugged on his hand to hint that Ryan really needed to return it to its rightful owner, thank you very much, before it lost all circulation.

The soldier laughed. “So, would you like to get away from the ARC for a while? I know this super curry place down the road. . .”

Hart’s eyes widened; he might have been suddenly treated to the sight of a stegosaurus dancing a jig with a mosasaur.

“Yes, we have permission,” Ryan said. “So, you want to?”

Playing catch-up to the tracker on a mission was something Ryan had never thought he’d have a chance to do again in this life. He would never figure out just how Stephen Hart could move so quickly without running. The man was waiting beside the front door of the ARC, almost vibrating with impatience by the time the soldier managed to finish his check out procedure.

“Patience is a virtue, my love,” Ryan said, not even hearing his own words until they were out of his mouth. At Hart’s look of shock, he raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “Not going to take it back,” he affirmed. “Let’s go. Third truck on the right and straight ahead to curry.”

With a grin, Stephen dove into the passenger seat, allowing Ryan the honour of driving. Not that he had much choice, since he still didn’t have a driving licence as far as the soldier knew. . .

xXx

Ryan’s eyes bugged out at the quantity of food piled on Hart’s plate. It looked as if the tracker had taken a couple of spoonfuls of every option on the buffet. He said so, and Hart grinned and nodded.

“Everything?” Ryan thought the extremely unmanly squeak in his voice might be heard on the other side of the restaurant. When Stephen’s shoulders started shaking, he was sure of it.

“Jesus,” he said in awe. “Why didn’t you just go back for seconds?”

Stephen’s right eyebrow flew up, and he pasted a long-suffering expression on his face. Ryan re-ran his question mentally and was about to start cursing himself when Hart lost control and dropped his face into his hands, trying desperately to control his silent laughter.

“I’m really going to regret this, aren’t I?” the soldier asked rhetorically.

Stephen nodded anyway, tucking into his meal with gusto. No one said he was going to stop at the one plate, his expression stated without equivocation.

After a slightly anxious start-up, Ryan felt him begin to relax into the evening. The choice of Indian had been inspired. In addition to the fact that it happened to be their favourite fare, the scent of the spices would override any pheromones that Stephen might emit through nervousness.

They talked throughout the meal, or rather Ryan talked and Hart nodded or shook his head or shrugged as needed. Each memory shared brought them closer together, and closer to feeling, not just thinking, about _them_. How great they’d been, how far they’d come together.

Two Hart-eaten platefuls later, Ryan was beginning to think he’d got the worst end of the deal. All Stephen had to do was respond; he never even had to stop shovelling food in. Ryan was the one doing all the talking; fuck, he’d barely even started his second plate and Hart was already leaning back after finishing his second load, looking as if he couldn’t decide whether he was feeling replete or feeling ill.

The soldier laughed. “You never did have a cut-off meter on your appetite where Indian is concerned.”

Stephen froze for a second, then matched Ryan’s smile. The number of times they’d eaten out and Stephen had tucked away twice as much as the burlier Ryan could manage to stuff in. . .

Ryan allowed himself to remember more. Unable to meet Stephen's eyes, he examined the painting on the wall behind Stephen’s head as he spoke. “I missed you. More than I’d thought would be possible. Every day, I looked around for you and you weren’t there. Every night, I turned over in bed and it was cold and empty.” Turning his gaze back to Stephen, he whispered, “Fuck it all, but I wish you could tell me what happened to you. What that bitch did, what she made you do.”

The shutters immediately dropped behind Stephen’s eyes, and he started to close down.

Ryan reached out and clasped Stephen’s hand, holding hard. “I know. It’s okay. You’ve never really been much on talking, anyway.” He forced a slightly wobbly grin. “We’ll figure it out somehow.”

Hart squeezed back, and nodded, visibly accepting the segue for how it was meant. Simple regret, and a promise for the future.

Ryan called for the bill. “Would you like some coffee?”

Stephen looked baffled as his gaze bounced around between the waiter, Ryan, the bill on the table and the coffee machine in the distance.

Ryan grinned. “My place.”

The blue eyes widened. Stephen smiled and slid out of the booth, holding his hand out for Ryan to take. The soldier nodded and accepted the grip. They walked out side by side.

Twenty minutes later they pulled into Ryan’s driveway, and the soldier led the way to the front door. Opening it, Ryan motioned to the back, “You know where the bog is. Have a slash and I’ll start the coffee.” Another shared grin: Hart never could get into a vehicle without needing a pee-break within a few minutes; something about the vibration, they’d finally decided.

After setting the coffee-maker going, Ryan turned to find Stephen had silently returned and was pensively stroking the edge of the counter. In the exact place they’d made love the morning Ryan had discovered he was being posted overseas.

_The phone rang while Ryan was making breakfast. Stephen wandered into the kitchen in his bathrobe to find out who had called, and Ryan hoisted him onto the counter without warning. Stephen was sodding lucky he was still loose and slightly damp from their prior exertions, because Ryan was inside him before he had a chance to breathe or even start to relax. The soldier had taken him hard and fast, slamming into his prostate over and over, thrusting his anger and his incipient loneliness into his blue-eyed lover’s body. Ryan had come hard after just a couple of minutes, and without taking any time to recover, he pressed a desperate and gasping kiss to Stephen’s mouth, tasting, taking, branding into his memory every second as he grasped the tracker’s hard cock and pumped once, twice, three times before Stephen came himself with a moan muffled against Ryan’s lips. “What the fuck was that all about?” Stephen asked, still gasping himself as Ryan pulled back enough for him to speak. Ryan pressed his forehead to his lover’s. “I’m posted. Don’t know when I’ll be back. I leave in an hour.” Stephen went white and pulled him close, holding hard. “I’ll be waiting, love,” he said. But he wasn’t._

Ryan stepped up behind Hart and wrapped his arms around him, resting his forehead on the back of his returned lover’s neck. Stephen turned in his grasp to look at him with tears shining in the cerulean of his eyes, transforming them into something that rivalled the ocean in depth. Ryan wanted to drown in them; instead, he kissed him, and it was both beautifully familiar, and painfully new.

 


	11. Epilogue

 

With tongue and teeth, Ryan began to map out all the familiar places on Stephen’s body: the spot under his ear that made him shiver, the spot where neck and shoulder met that made him gasp. Finding them, tasting them, feeling Stephen begin to tremble with desire.

The tracker’s arms rose, winding around Ryan’s back, hands twining through his hair, ruffling the short strands in the same way he always had and Ryan had to bite back a gasp of his own. Total elation washed through his body and he spun his lover around and backed him toward the bedroom, each step matched with a kiss or a caress, each metre corresponding with a piece of clothing discarded, until they could fall naked together onto the bed.

Hands roamed, lips tasted and caressed until every millimetre of their bodies had felt the touch of the other.

 _No difference_ , Ryan’s mind almost sang to him, _no difference_. He pulled back to meet Stephen’s eyes, cloud gray to midnight blue. Stephen smiled slightly, seeming to understand without even trying exactly why Ryan’s fingers were stroking his face softly, outlining prominent cheekbones, caressing eyebrows, tracing around the strong jaw line and finally coming to rest on kiss-swollen lips in a touch so gentle it was almost a benediction.

Ryan closed his eyes for a moment, gathering control, then began again. This was going to be for Stephen, for recognition, for apology, for - love.

He tasted the long column of his lover’s neck, the strong, wiry muscles gliding under the skin as Stephen swallowed hard and his hands started roaming across Ryan’s back.

Down to the hollow of the throat, teeth nibbling, tongue dipping in. Stephen’s hands tightened and his nails raked softly.

Down the breastbone, then soft open-mouth kisses first to the right, tongue tracking the edge of the pec then circling the pebbled nipple, next to the left, again tracking and circling, this time with an added nip to the hard nub. Stephen’s hips undulated; his cock was fully engorged, standing hard and heavy from its nest of dark hair.

Across the hard abs, still too thin, much too thin. . . dipping into the hollow of the navel, causing a gasp instead of the usual whine. Didn’t matter. Didn’t matter.

Tongue tracing the iliac crest, teeth nibbling the prominent hip bones, causing another undulation, stronger this time with added panting, desperation starting to be apparent in the heavy breaths.

Finally, exhalation ghosting across the thick head of the pulsing cock, every pounding heartbeat causing it to jump, and when he passed a feather-soft lick the length from base to tip, the hands on his shoulders convulsed, gripping him almost hard enough to hurt.

Hands holding the shuddering hips down. Allowing no movement. Something that always drove Stephen to the edge of sanity. . .

And it still worked, if the frantic look on his face and the heaving breaths were any indication as Ryan took the tip of the engorged cock in his mouth and started to suckle. He lashed the entire head with hard strokes, then tightened his tongue and did his best to shove it entirely into the slit. Stephen shook with a silent scream.

Backing off, Ryan went back to sucking, bobbing his head up and down, bringing tight lips right to the base of the glans, rubbing his tongue across, pressing into the fraenulum, then moving down again to bury his nose against Stephen’s skin, then back again, sucking hard as he gently rolled rapidly tightening balls in his hand. Completely out of control, Stephen was writhing on the bed, mouth agape and chest heaving, hands unable to stay still, grabbing at the sheets, grasping Ryan’s hair, stroking his shoulders, then back to clutch handfuls of the material again.

He looked like he was starting to actually hurt, so Ryan took pity on him, and on himself as well. The soldier was beginning to feel as if his own cock was going to explode, simply from the sight and taste of Stephen.

He reached for the lube and coated his fingers before pressing first one, then a second finger inside the twitching hole. Stephen gasped and pressed down onto the digits, trying to move them faster, harder.

Ryan laughed. “Oh, no. We finish this at my speed.”

Stephen’s look of outrage would have been hilarious if it hadn’t been tempered with desperation. Ryan nodded, kissed the tip of the cock still bobbing temptingly in front of his face, and rapidly twisted a third finger inside, finding and raking it across the prostate. Stephen stopped breathing for a moment, eyes rolling back as he went almost limp at the electric jolt along every nerve ending.

Ryan took the opportunity to quickly slick his cock and press slowly inside. Stephen immediately tightened around him, face still slack with desire but hips taking a great interest in proceedings. In fact, Ryan figured that if they’d been on a waterbed, they’d have been dumped off right about now. . .

A nip to his shoulder brought his mind back to their current activities. The expression on his lover’s face all but said, _Oi, pay attention, damn it! I need movement!_

Ryan laughed again, a totally joyous sound for the first time in months. He pulled out slowly and pressed back in, so gradually that Stephen started to look outraged again. Ryan couldn’t resist, he just had to kiss that expression off his lover’s face.

Speeding up, the soldier started altering his angle on every stroke, searching, searching, finding. Stephen gasped and tightened around him again as he started striking the little bundle of nerves over and over, every thrust raking his cock across it.

After barely a dozen strokes into the willing body matching his rhythm, Ryan was about to explode and Stephen seemed to have a pleading expression welded to his face. The movement of the body under him was starting to lose timing with his, and Ryan was feeling his balls tighten as his climax rapidly became imperative.

Wanting Stephen to come first, the soldier braced himself on one arm, reached between their straining bodies and grasped Stephen’s swollen cock in his hand. One squeeze and the tracker lost all cohesion, gasping and convulsing into his orgasm, cock pulsing come onto his stomach in ropes, arse squeezing so hard around Ryan that the soldier gave a shout and shot stream after stream of his own come into Stephen’s rigid body.

He collapsed onto the other man, gulping for air, feeling Stephen’s chest rising and falling rapidly under him as he gently pulled his softening cock out of the still twitching hole.

“Bloody fucking hell,” the soldier breathed. Stephen nodded weakly, eyes almost crossed. Ryan pulled him into an embrace and kissed him gently. “Welcome home, love.” He grabbed a handful of tissues and wiped Stephen’s stomach clean.

Stephen smiled slowly and pushed Ryan onto his back so he could sprawl across the soldier’s chest in a meltingly satisfied post-coital haze. His hand started drawing slow, random, sensuous patterns across the tight abs. His eyes were as dark and dreamy as midnight in the mountains as he nuzzled Ryan's nipple and then nibbled the hardening nub.

"Christ," Ryan breathed. The temptation to retaliate by dipping his fingers into the still-stretched hole and massaging his come into the soft skin was almost overwhelming, so he stroked Stephen's back and tried to think about anything else to take his mind off what his blue-eyed lover was doing. Another round like the last and Stephen wouldn't be able to sit down tomorrow. And Ryan himself probably wouldn’t have enough energy left to stand. . .

Maybe now was a good time to ask a few questions - not that these particular questions could be classified as _good_ at any time. . . Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

"Mind talking a bit?" he asked.

Stephen raised a mocking eyebrow and pinched the nipple he'd been lapping at. Ryan flinched, feeling himself starting to fill, and covered both with a chuckle. "Right. Right. I ask and you nod."

Grinning, Stephen licked the nipple and nodded, then nipped it and shook his head. Ryan's chuckle grew into a laugh. "Yeah, that would turn it into an interesting conversation." A thought sidled up and tickled the edge of his mind but flipped its tail in derision and disappeared when he tried it grab it. Never mind. It would come back later.

"About Helen."

Stephen frowned and bit the tight nub.

"Ow," said Ryan, without emphasis. "Sorry, not going to change the subject. And no sodding puppy-dog eyes. You know they don't work. Just take it like a man and get it over with, then we'll never bring it up again."

Stephen made a face, then subsided reluctantly and rather grumpily onto Ryan's chest, chin cradled on his crossed forearms and a long-suffering look on his face.

The next question yanked his head up as if he'd stuck his chin into a bramble bush.

"Did Helen use you to control others?"

Stephen gaped at him for a second, then looked confused and simply shrugged.

Remembering the prior question and answer sessions, Ryan figured that meant _can’t answer, not a yes or no, rephrase the question_ so he tried again, slightly differently.

"Did she use you as a reward?"

Anything left of Stephen’s playful mood evaporated like mist in sunshine as he paled and tried to scramble out of the bed. Ryan pulled him back, holding him tight. He whispered reassurances over and over until his lover finally started to relax against him again, face buried against his chest. Ryan didn't know whether it was anger, humiliation, or fear of Ryan's possible reaction to the truth that Hart was feeling, or maybe even a combination of all of them, but he wasn't going to allow the man to hide. He had nothing to be ashamed about, and Ryan let him know that.

"I really am going to shoot her next time I see her," he said conversationally.

Stephen hesitantly raised his head and stared at him, eyes wide and pained.

"Who was it? Those fucking Cleaners? Were you a part of their _payment_ for jobs well done?"

A stiff nod answered him, eyes lowered. Ryan knew this was their make-or-break moment. If Stephen would believe him now, and accept his words as truth, they would survive.

"Yes, Helen is definitely dead; that’s a promise.” He stroked Stephen’s back soothingly. “So, another promise: as of right now, it's over. You're home. And whatever that bitch did to you, whatever acts she made you do, are unimportant. They don't even register on the scale. You're mine, and I'm yours, and that's all that fucking matters to me, and I hope to you."

Stephen sat up again, complete joy suffusing his face, but it was tempered by extreme irritation at not being able to express it. He gifted Ryan with a tongue-tangling kiss, then started waving his hands around in a comical mime of frustration.

"Holy fuck," Ryan breathed with an arrested expression. He let out a string of curses in which the phrase, _'Why the fucking fuck didn't we fucking well think of that before?_ ' took centre stage.

His only reward for that impassioned display was a look of extremely fuckable confusion from Stephen.

Ryan resisted the impulse to accept that invitation, and instead, he sat up, pointed to himself, made two fists and hugged his heart, then pointed at Stephen.

Shrugging incomprehension, Stephen looked a query.

"Sign language. Sodding sign language. It means _I love you._ Vicky taught me the basics of signing years ago. She’d just started school; there was a deaf girl; Vicky was learning it so she could talk to her. I'd completely forgotten about it."

Stephen's eyes widened and he hesitated, then with a look of total concentration on his face, he returned the movement.

Ryan was ready to cheer. In fact, he was ready to bloody well explode with glee. And self-recrimination. Through all of this, they'd never even _thought_ of signing. He consoled himself with the knowledge that they never thought of it because Stephen had seemed to have no conception that communication on his part was even possible. But now. . .

The soldier dug through his memory and dredged up the signs for _want to learn?_ and told Stephen what they meant.

Stephen nodded with a huge smile that lit up his face, then grabbed Ryan, straddled his lap and kissed him hard, practically climbing into the soldier's mouth, letting him know with every sliding stroke of tongue and nibble of teeth how happy he was.

Maybe Stephen wasn't completely home yet, but he was so close they could almost taste it. He pointed at Ryan with his brows raised, and the soldier said, "Try to keep me away. We take the lessons together, love, always together."

And he kissed his returned blue-eyed lover with every bit of devotion he could convey.

End


End file.
